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RITA 


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TO 
FIVE    GIRLS    I   KNOW 
IN   THE    TOWN    OF   SAINT   JO 


294 


RSU 


1 


If  this  story  should  seem  extravagant  to  any  of 
my  readers,  I  can  only  refer  them  to  some  one  of 
the  many  published  accounts  of  the  Spanish-Amer- 
ican War.  They  will  find  that  many  delicate  and 
tenderly  nurtured  girls  were  forced  to  endure 
dangers  and  privations  compared  to  which  Rita's 

adventures  seem  like  child's  play. 

L.  E.  R. 


CONTENTS. 


♦ • 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Threatening  Weather      ....  11 

II.  The  Storm  Bursts 23 

III.  On  the  Way 33 

IV.  The  Camp  among  the    Hills    ...  54 
V.  To  Margaret 77 

VI.  In  the  Night 93 

VII.  Camp  Scene 110 

Vin.  The  Pacificos 130 

IX.  In  Hiding .142 

X.  Manuela's    Opportunity            .         .         .  163 

XI.  Captain  Jack 176 

XII.  For  Life 190 

XIII.  Meetings  and  Greetings          .        .        .  200 

XIV.  Another  Camp 216 

XV.  A  Foregone  Conclusion  ....  233 


LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

<*  Rita  Montfort  drew  her  dagger  and 

WAITED "  .  .         .         .  .         •  Frontispiece 

In  the  Garden 21 

'<  The  famished  child  looked  from  the  bis- 
cuit   TO    THE   GLOWING   FACE*'  .  .  .43 

"<HuShI*    said    the    young    girl.       <SiT    STILL*"       104 

"«Wa8  such  a  hat  ever  seen  in  Paris?***   .  147 
"«I  throw  open  the  door  and  step  back,  my 

heart  in  my  mouth*** 172 

"Now    AGAIN    IT    was    A    RIDE    FOR    LIFE**         .  .      205 

"The  patients  idolise  her'*       .         .         •         •     237 


'<  RITA    MONTFORT    DREW    HER    DAGGER    AND    WAITED. 


RITA 


BY 

LAURA   E.    RICHARDS 

AUTHOR  OF 

"  PEGGY,"  "  MARGARET  MONTFORT,"  "  THREE 

MARGARETS,"  ETC. 


Cllustratetr  ftg 
ETHELDRED  B.  BARRY 


BOSTON 
DANA   ESTES   &   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright^  igoo 
By  Dana  Estes  &  Company 


Educatioa 
GIFT 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  C.  H.  Simonds  &  Co. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


RITA. 

CHAPTER  I. 

THREATENING   WEATHER. 

To  Senor, 

Sehor  the  illustrious  Don  John  Montfort, 

Honoured  Sehor  and  Brother :  —  There  are 

several  months  that  I  wrote  to  inform  you  of 

the  deeply  deplored  death  of   my  lamented 

husband^  Senor  Don  Richard  Montfort.    Your 

letter  of   condolation  and   advice  was  balm 

poured  upon  my  bleeding  wounds,  received 

before  yesterday  at  the  hands  of  my  banker, 

Don  Miguel  Pietoso.     You  are  the  brother  of 

my   adored   husband,   your  words   are  as   if 

spoken  from  his  casket.     You  tell  me,  stay 

at  home,  remain  in  quietness,  till  these  alarms 

11 


12  KITA. 

of  war  are  over.  Alas !  respectable  senor, 
to  accomplish  this?  Havana  is  since  the 
shocking  affair  of  the  Maine  in  uproar;  on 
each  side  are  threats,  are  cries,  ^^  Death  to 
the  Americanos  ! "  My  be  wept  angel,  Don 
Richard,  was  in  his  heart  Spanish,  by  birth 
American ;  I  see  brows  black  upon  me  —  me, 
a  Castilian!  —  when  I  go  from  my  house. 
Already  they  speak  of  to  burn  the  houses 
of  wealthy  Americans,  to  drive  forth  those 
dwelling  in. 

Again,  senor,  my  daughter,  your  niece 
Margarita  —  what  to  do,  I  ask  you,  of  this 
young  person  ?  She  is  Cuban,  she  is  fanatic, 
she  is  impossible.  I  apply  myself  to  instruct 
her  as  her  station  and  fortune  demand,  as 
befits  a  Spanish  lady  of  rank ;  she  insubordi- 
nates  me,  she  makes  mockery  of  my  position 
as  head  of  her  house.  She  teach  her  parrot 
to  cry  "Viva  Cuba  Libre!"  She  play  at 
open  windows  her  guitar,  songs  of  Cuban 
rebels,  forbidden  by  the  authoritaties.   I  exert 


THKEATENING  WEATHER.  13 

my  power,  I  exhort,  I  command,  —  she  laughs 
me  at  the  nose,  and  sings  more  loud.  I  at- 
tend that  in  few  days  we  are  all  the  two  in 
prison.  What  to  do  ?  you  already  know  that 
her  betrothed,  Senor  Santillo  de  Santayana, 
is  dead  a  year  ago  of  a  calenture.  Her 
grief  was  excessive;  she  intended  to  die, 
and  made  preparation  costing  large  sums  of 
money  for  her  obsequies.  She  forget  all  now, 
she  says,  for  her  country.  In  this  alarming 
time,  the  freedom  her  father  permitted  her 
(his  extreme  philanthropy  overcoming  his 
judgmatism)  becomes  impossible.  I  implore 
you,  highly  honoured  senor  and  brother,  to 
write  your  commands  to  this  unhappy  child, 
that  she  submit  herself  to  me,  her  guardian 
in  nature,  until  you  can  assert  your  legal 
potencies.  I  intend  shortly  to  make  retreat 
in  the  holy  convent  of  the  White  Sisters,  few 
miles  from  here.  Rita  accompanionates  me, 
and  I  trust  there  to  change  the  spirit  of 
rebellion   so   shocking   in    a    young    person 


14  KITA. 

unmarried,  into  the  soul  docile  and  sheep-like 
as  becomes  a  highly  native  Spanish  maiden. 
The  Sisters  are  of  justice  celebrated  for  their 
pious  austerities  and  the  firmness  of  their 
rule.  Eita  will  remain  with  them  until  peace 
is  assured,  or  until  your  emissaries  apport 
distinct  advice. 

For  me,  your  kind  and  gracious  inquiries 
would  have  watered  my  heart  were  it  not 
already  blasted.  Desolation  must  attend  my 
remaining  years ;  but  through  them  all  I  shall 
be,  dear  senor  and  brother,  your  most  grateful 
and  in  afiliction  devoted  sister  and  servant, 
Maria  Concepcion  de  Naragua  Montfort. 

Havana^  April  30,  1898. 

Dearest,  dearest  Uncle  :  —  My  step- 
mother says  she  has  written  to  you  concern- 
ing me.  I  implore  you,  as  you  loved  your 
brother,  my  sainted  father,  to  believe  no 
single  word  she  says.  This  woman  is  of  a 
duplicity,  a  falseness,  impossible  for  your  lofty 


THREATENIISra    WEATHER.  15 

soul  to  comprehend.  It  needs  a  Cuban,  my 
uncle,  to  understand  a  Spaniard.  She  wants 
to  take  me  to  the  convent,  to  those  terrible 
White  Sisters,  who  will  shave  my  head  and 
lacerate  my  flesh  with  heated  scourges, — 
Manuela  has  told  me  about  them  5  scourges 
of  iron  chains  knotted  and  made  hot,  —  me, 
a  Protestant,  daughter  of  a  free  American. 
Uncle  John,  it  is  my  corpse  alone  that  she 
will  carry  there,  understand  that !  Never  will 
I  go  ahve.  I  have  daggers ;  here  on  my  wall 
are  many  of  them,  beautifully  arranged;  I 
polish  them  daily,  it  is  my  one  mournful 
pleasure;  they  are  sharp  as  lightning,  and 
their  lustre  dazzles  the  eye.  I  have  poison 
also;  a  drop,  and  the  daughter  of  your 
brother  is  white  and  cold  at  the  feet  of  her 
murderess.  Enough!  she  will  be  avenged. 
Carlos  Montfort  lives ;  and  you,  too,  I  know 
it,  I  feel  it,  would  spring,  would  leap  across 
the  sea  to  avenge  your  Rita,  who  fondly  loves 
you.      Hear    me    swear,   my   uncle,   on   my 


16  RITA. 

knees;  never,  never  will  I  go  alive  to  that 
place  of  death,  the  convent.  (I  pray  you  to 
pardon  this  blot ;  I  spilt  the  ink,  kneeling  in 
passion ;  what  would  you  have  ?) 

Your  unhappy 

Rita. 

Beloved  Marguerite  :  —  I  have  written 
to  our  dear  and  honoured  uncle  of  the  perils 
which  surround  me.  My  life,  my  reason,  are 
at  stake.  It  may  be  that  I  have  but  a  few 
weeks  more  to  live.  Every  day,  therefore, 
dearest,  let  me  pour  out  my  soul  to  you,  now 
my  one  comfort  on  earth,  since  my  heart  was 
laid  in  the  grave  of  my  Santayana. 

It  is  night;  all  the  house  is  wrapped  in 
slumber ;  I  alone  wake  and  weep.  I  seldom 
sleep  now,  save  by  fitful  snatches.  I  sit  as 
at  this  moment,  by  my  little  table,  my  taper 
illuminated,  in  my  peignoir  (you  would  be 
pleased  with  my  peignoir,  my  poor  Mar- 
guerite !   it  is  white  mousseline  d'lnde,  flow- 


THREATENING   WEATHER.  17 

ing  very  full  from  the  shoulders,  falling  in 
veritable  clouds  about  me,  with  deep  ruffles 
of  Valenciennes  and  bands  of  insertion;  the 
ribbons  white,  of  course ;  maidens  should 
mourn  in  white,  is  it  not  so.  Marguerite  ?  no 
colour  has  approached  me  since  my  bereave- 
ment ;  fortunately  black  and  white  are  both 
becoming  to  me,  while  that  other,  Concepcion, 
looks  like  a  sick  orange  in  either.  Even  the 
flowers  in  my  room  are  solely  white.) 

It  seems  a  thousand  years  since  I  heard 
from  you,  my  cool  snow-pearl  of  cousins. 
Write  more  often  to  your  Rita,  she  implores 
you.  I  pine  for  news  of  you,  of  Uncle  John, 
of  all  at  dear,  dear  Fernley.  Alas !  how 
young  I  was  there  !  a  simple  child,  sporting 
among  the  Northern  daisies.  Now,  in  the 
whirlwind  of  my  passionate  existence,  I  look 
back  to  that  peaceful  summer.  For  you.  Mar- 
guerite, the  green  oasis,  the  palm-trees,  the 
crystal  spring;  for  me,  the  sand  storm  and 
the  fiery  death.     No  matter !  I  live  and  die  a 


18  RITA. 

daughter  of  Cuba,  the  gold  star  on  my  brow, 
the  three  colours  painted  on  my  heart.  Good 
night,  beloved !  I  kiss  the  happy  paper  that 
goes  to  you.  Till  to-morrow,  and  while  I 
live,  Your 

Rita. 

Havana,  May  1,  1.898. 
Not  until  afternoon  goes  the  mail  steamer, 
Marguerite,  only  pearl  of  my  heart.  I  wrote 
you  a  few  burning  words  last  night ;  then  I 
flung  myself  on  my  bed,  hoping  to  lose  my 
sorrows  for  a  few  minutes  in  sleep.  I  slept, 
a  thing  hardly  known  to  me  at  present;  it 
was  the  sleep  of  exhaustion,  Marguerite. 
When  I  woke,  Manuela  was  putting  back 
the  curtains  to  let  in  the  light  of  dawn.  It 
is  still  early  morning,  fresh  and  dewy,  and  I 
am  here  in  the  garden.  At  no  time  of  the 
day  is  the  garden  more  beautiful  than  now, 
in  the  purity  of  the  day's  birth.  I  have  de- 
scribed it  to  you  at  night,  with  the  eocuyos 


THKEATENIIS'G   WEATHER.  19 

gleaming  like  lamps  in  the  green  dusk  of  the 
orange-trees,  or  the  moonlight  striking  the 
world  to  silver.  I  wish  you  could  see  it  now  — 
this  garden  of  my  soul,  so  soon,  it  may  be, 
to  be  destroyed  by  ruthless  hands  of  savage 
Spaniards.  The  palms  stand  like  stately  pil- 
lars ;  till  the  green  plumes  wave  in  the  morn- 
ing breeze,  one  fancies  a  temple  or  cathedral, 
with  aisles  of  crowned  verdure.  Behind  these 
stand  the  banana-trees,  rows  and  rows,  with 
clusters  hanging  thick,  crimson  and  gold. 
Would  Peggy  be  happy  here,  do  you  think? 
Poor  little  Peggy !  How  often  I  long  to  cut 
down  a  tree,  to  send  her  whole  bunches  of 
the  fruit  she  delights  in.  The  mangoes,  too ! 
I  used  to  think  I  could  not  live  without  man- 
goes. When  I  went  to  you,  it  appeared  that 
I  must  die  without  my  fruits ;  now  their  rich 
pulp  dries  untasted  by  my  lips :  what  have  I 
to  do  with  food,  save  the  bare  necessary  to 
support  what  life  remains  ?  I  am  waiting 
now  for  my  coffee ;  at  this  moment  Manuela 


20  RITA. 

brings  it^  with  the  grape-fruit  and  rolls,  and 
places  it  here  on  the  table  of  green  marble, 
close  by  the  fountain  where  I  sit.  The  foun- 
tain soothes  my  suffering  heart,  as  it  tinkles 
in  the  broad  basin  of  green  marble.  Nature, 
Marguerite,  speaks  to  the  heart  of  despair. 
You  have  not  known  despair,  my  best  one ; 
may  it  be  long,  long  before  you  do.  Among 
her  other  vices,  this  woman,  Concepcion,  would 
like  to  starve  me,  in  my  own  house.  She 
counts  the  rolls,  she  knows  how  many  lumps 
of  sugar  I  put  in  my  coffee ;  an  hour  will 
dawn  —  I  say  no  more !  I  am  patient.  Mar- 
guerite, I  am  forbearing,  a  statue,  marble 
in  the  midst  of  fire ;  but  beyond  a  certain 
point  I  will  not  endure  persecution,  and  I  say 
to  you,  let  Concepcion  Montfort,  the  widow 
of  my  sainted  father,  beware ! 

Adios,  my  Magnolia  Flower!  I  must  feed 
my  birds.  Already  they  are  awake  and  call- 
ing the  mistress  they  love.  They  hang  —  I 
have  told  you  —  in  large  airy  cages,  all  round 


IN    THE    GARDEN. 


THREATElSriNG    WEATHER.  21 

under  the  eaves  of  the  summer-house  beside 
the  fountain.  They  are  beautiful,  Margaret, 
the  Java  sparrows,  the  little  love-birds,  the 
splendid  macaw,  the  paroquets,  and  mocking- 
birds ;  but  king  among  them  all  is  Chiquito, 
our  parrot.  Marguerite,  yours  and  mine,  the 
one  link  here  that  binds  me  to  my  Northern 
home;  for  I  may  call  Fernley  my  home. 
Uncle  John  has  said  it;  the  lonely  orphan 
can  think  of  one  spot  where  tender  hearts 
beat  for  her,  not  passionately,  but  with  stead- 
fast pulses.  Chico  is  in  superb  health ;  he  is 
—  I  tell  you  every  time  —  a  revelation  in  the 
animal  kingdom.  More  than  this,  he  is  a 
bird  of  heart ;  he  feels  for  me,  feels  intensely, 
in  this  dark  time.  Only  yesterday  he  bit  old 
Julio  severely;  I  am  persuaded  it  was  his 
love  for  me  that  prompted  the  act.  Julio  is 
a  Spaniard  of  the  Spaniards,  the  slave  of 
Concepcion.  He  attempted  to  cajole  my 
Chico,  he  offered  him  sugar.  To-day  he 
goes  with  his  arm  in  a  sling,  and  curses  the 


22  RITA. 

Cuban  bird,  with  threats  against  his  life. 
Never  mind,  Marguerite !  a  time  will  soon 
come  —  I  can  say  no  more.  I  am  dumb  ;  the 
grave  is  less  silent;  but  do  you  think  your 
Rita  will  submit  eternally  to  tyranny  and 
despotism  ?  No,  you  know  she  will  not,  it  is 
not  her  nature.  You  look,  my  best  one,  for 
some  outbreak  of  my  passionate  nature,  you 
attend  that  the  volcano  spring  some  sudden 
hour  into  flame,  overwhelming  all  in  its  path. 
You  are  right,  heart  of  my  heart.  You  shall 
not  be  disappointed.  Rita  will  prove  herself 
worthy  of  your  love.  How  ?  hush !  ask  not, 
dream  not !  trust  me  and  be  silent. 

Margarita  de  San  Real  Montfort. 


,      CHAPTER  II, 

THE    STORM   BURSTS. 

Greatly  honoured  Sir  :  —  I  permit  my- 
self the  privilege  of  addressing  your  Excel- 
lency,  my  name  being  known  to  you  as  man 
of  business  of  late  your  admired  brother, 
Senor  Don  Bicardo  Montfort.  I  find  myself, 
seiior,  in  a  position  of  great  hardness  between 
the  two  admirable  ladies,  Senora  Montfort, 
widow  of  Don  Ricardo,  and  his  beautiful 
daughter,  the  Senorita  Margarita.  These 
ladies,  admirable,  as  I  have  said,  in  beauty, 
character,  and  abilities,  find  it,  nevertheless, 
impossible  to  live  in  harmony.  As  man  of 
affairs,  I  am  present  at  painful  scenes,  which 
wring  the  heart.  Each  cries  to  me  to  save 
her  from  the  other.  The  senora  desires  to 
make  retreat  at  the  convent  of  the  White 

23 


24  RITA. 

Sisters,  thrice  holy  and  beatified  persons,  but 
of  a  strictness  repugnant  to  the  lively  and 
ardent  spirit  of  the  senorita.  Last  evening 
took  place  a  terrible  enactment,  at  which  I 
most  unluckily  assisted.  Senora  Montfort 
permitted  her  lofty  spirit  to  assert  itself 
more  strongly  than  her  delicate  corporosity 
was  able  to  endure,  and  fell  into  violent  hys- 
tericality.  Her  shrieks  wanted  little  of 
arousing  the  neighbourhood ;  the  servants  be- 
came appalled  and  lost  their  reason.  Seno- 
rita Margarita  maintained  her  calmness,  and 
even  refused  to  consider  the  senora's  condi- 
tion as  serious.  On  the  assurance  of  the 
young  lady  and  the  senora's  maid,  I  was 
obliged  to  accept  the  belief  that  the  senora 
would  shortly  recover  if  left  to  herself,  and 
came  away  in  deep  grief,  leaving  that  illus- 
trious matron  —  I  speak  with  respect  —  in 
fits  upon  the  floor.  One  would  have  said,  a 
child  of  six  deprived  of  its  toy.  Greatly 
honoured  Senor  Montfort,  I  am  a  man   no 


THE    STORM    BURSTS.  25 

longer  young.  Having  myself  no  conjugal 
ameliorations,  I  make  no  pretence  to  compre- 
hend the  more  delicate  and  complex  nature 
of  females.  I  am  cut  to  the  heart ;  the 
senora  scrupled  not  to  address  me  as  "  Old 
Fool."  Heaven  is  my  witness  that  I  have 
endeavoured  of  my  best  lights  to  smoothen 
the  path  for  her  well-born  and  at  present  be- 
reaved feet.  But  what  can  I  do  ?  Neither 
lady  will  listen  to  me.  The  senorita,  let  me 
hasten  to  say,  shows  me  always  a  tender,  I 
might  without  too  great  a  presumption  say  a 
filial,  kindness.  I  held  her  in  my  arms  from 
the  day  of  her  birth,  senor ;  she  is  the  flower 
of  the  world  to  me.  When  she  takes  me 
the  hands  and  says, "  Dear  old  Donito  Miguel- 
ito,  let  me  do  as  I  desire  and  all  will  be 
well ! "  I  have  no  strength  to  resist  her. 
Had  I  a  house  of  my  own,  I  would  take  this 
charming  child  home  with  me,  to  be  my 
daughter  while  she  would ;  but  —  a  bachelor 
living    in     two    rooms  —  what    would   you, 


26  RITA. 

senor?  it  is  not  possible.  Deign,  I  beseech 
you,  to  consider  this  my  respectful  report,  and 
if  circumstances  are  proprietary  come  to  my 
assistance,  or  send  me  instructions  how  to 
act. 

Accept,  senor,  the  assurance  of  my  perfect 
consideration,  and  believe  me 

Your  obedient,  humble  servant, 

Miguel  Pietoso. 

To     THE     HON^OURABLE      SeSoR    DoX     JoHN 
MONTFORT. 

Honoured  and  dear  Brother :  —  Since  I 
wrote  you  last  week,  things  the  most  fright- 
ful have  happened.  Rita's  conduct  grew  more 
and  more  violent  and  unruled ;  in  despair,  I 
sent  for  Don  Miguel.  This  old  man,  though  of 
irreproached  character,  is  of  a  weakness  piti- 
able to  see  in  one  wearing  the  form  of  man- 
kind. I  called  upon  him  to  uphold  me,  and 
command  Kita  to  obey  the  wife  of  her  father. 
He  had  only  smooth  words  for  each  of  us, 


THE    STORM    BURSTS.  27 

and  endeavoured  to  charm  this  wretched 
child,  when  terror  should  have  been  his 
weapon.  I  leave  you  to  imagine  if  she  was 
influenced  by  his  gentle  admonitions.  To  my 
face  she  caressed  him,  and  he  responded  to 
her  caresses.  Don  Miguel  is  an  old  man, 
eighty  years  of  age,  but  nevertheless  my 
anger,  my  just  anger,  rose  to  a  height  beyond 
my  power  of  control.  I  fainted  from  excess 
of  emotion ;  I  lay  as  one  dead,  and  no  heart 
stirred  of  my  sufferings.  Since  then  I  have 
been  in  my  bed,  with  no  power  more  than 
has  a  babe  of  the  cradle.  This  morning 
Margarita  came  to  me  and  expressed  regret 
for  her  conduct,  saying  that  she  was  willing 
from  now  to  submit  herself  to  my  righteous 
authority.  I  forgave  her, —  I  am  a  Christian, 
dear  brother,  and  cannot  forget  the  principles 
of  my  holy  religion,  —  and  we  embraced  with 
tears.  This  evening  we  go  to  the  convent, 
where  I  hope  to  find  ease  for  my  soul- wounds 
and  to  subdue  the  frightful  disposition  of  my 


28  RITA. 

stepdaughter.  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  relate 
these  occurrences  to  you^  dear  and  honoured 
brother,  for  I  feel  that  I  may  succumb  under 
the  weight  of  my  afflictions.  We  start  this 
evening,  and  Don  Miguel  will  inform  you  of 
our  departure  and  safe  arrival  at  the  holy 
convent,  whither  he  accompanies  us. 

Permit  me  to  express,  dear  brother,  the 
sentiments  of  exalted  consideration  with 
which  I  must  ever  regard  you  as  next  in 
blood  to  my  adored  consort,  and  believe  me 

Your  devoted, 
Maria  Concepcion  de  Naragua  Montfort. 

Greatly  honoured  and  illustrious 
Sir  :  —  Let  me  entreat  you  to  prepare  your- 
self for  news  of  alarming  nature.  Yesterday 
evening  I  was  honoured  by  the  commands  of 
the  Seiiora  Montfort,  that  I  convey  her  and 
Senorita  Margarita  to  the  holy  convent  of  the 
White  Sisters.  My  age,  senor,  is  such  that 
a  scene  of  emotion  is  infinitely  distressing  to 


THE    STORM    BURSTS.  29 

me^  but  I  could  not  disobey  the  commands 
of  this  illustrious  lady,  the  widow  of  my 
kindest  patron  and  friend.  I  went,  prepared 
for  tears,  for  outcries,  perhaps  for  violent 
resistance,  for  the  ardent  and  high-strung 
nature  of  my  beloved  Senorita  Margarita  is 
well  known  to  me.  Figure  to  yourself, 
honoured  senor,  my  surprise  at  finding  this 
charming  damsel  calm,  composed,  even  smil- 
ing. She  greeted  me  with  her  accustomed 
tenderness ;  a  more  enchanting  personality 
does  not,  I  am  assured,  adorn  the  earth  than 
that  of  this  lovely  child.  She  bade  me  have 
no  alarms  for  her,  that  all  was  well,  she  was 
reconciled  to  her  lot ;  indeed,  she  added  that 
she  could  not  now  wish  things  otherwise. 
Amazed,  but  also  enchanted  with  her  docility 
and  sweetness,  I  gave  her  an  old  man's  bless- 
ing, and  my  prayers  that  the  rigour  of  the 
holy  Sisters  might  be  softened  toward  her 
tender  and  high-spirited  youth.  She  replied 
that  she  had  no  fear  of  the  Sisters ;  that  in 


30  RITA. 

truth  she  thought  they  would  give  her  no 
trouble  of  any  kind.  I  was  ravished  with 
this  assurance,  having,  I  may  confess  it  to 
you,  seiior,  dreaded  the  contact  between  the 
seiBorita  and  the  holy  Mother,  a  woman  of 
incredible  force  and  piety.  But  I  must  hasten 
my  narrative.  At  seven  o'clock  last  evening 
two  volantes  were  in  readiness  at  the  door 
of  the  Montfort  mansion.  The  first  was 
driven  by  the  senora's  own  man,  the  second 
by  Pasquale,  a  negro  devoted  since  childhood 
to  the  seiiorita.  The  seiiora  would  have 
placed  her  daughter  in  the  first  of  these 
vehicles ;  but  no !  the  senorita  sprang  lightly 
into  the  second  volante,  followed  by  her  maid, 
a  young  person,  also  tenderly  attached  to  her. 
Interposing  myself  to  produce  calm,  I  per- 
suade the  admirable  senora  to  take  the 
position  that  etiquette  commanded,  in  the 
first  carriage.  It  is  done ;  I  seat  myself  by 
her  side ;  procession  is  made.  The  way  to 
the  convent  of  the  White  Sisters,  senor,  is 


THE    STORM   BURSTS.  31 

a  steep  and  rugged  one ;  on  either  hand  are 
savage  passes,  are  mountains  of  precipitation. 
To  conceive  what  happened,  how  is  it  possi- 
ble ?  When  we  reached  the  convent  gate, 
the  second  volante  was  empty.  Assassinated 
with  terror,  I  make  demand  of  Pasquale ;  he 
admits  that  he  may  have  slept  during  the 
long  traject  up  the  hill.  He  swears  that  he 
heard  no  sound,  that  no  word  was  addressed 
to  him.  He  calls  the  saints  to  witness  that 
he  is  innocent;  the  saints  make  no  reply, 
but  that  is  not  uncommon.  I  search  ;  I  rend 
the  air  with  my  cries ;  alone  silence  responds 
to  me.  The  senora  is  carried  fainting  into 
the  convent,  and  I  return  to  Havana,  a  man 
distracted.  I  should  say  that  in  the  carriage 
was  found  the  long  mantle  in  which  the 
seiiorita  had  been  gracefully  attired ;  to  its 
fold  a  note  pinned,  addressed  me  in  affection- 
ate terms,  begging  her  dear  Donito  Miguelito 
not  to  have  fear,  that  she  was  going  to  Don 
Carlos,  her  brother,  and  all  would  be  well. 


32  RITA. 

Since  then  is  two  days,  seiior,  that  I  have 
not  closed  the  eye.  I  attend  a  fit  of  illness, 
from  grief  and  anxiousness.  In  duty  I  in- 
telligence you  of  this  dolorous  event,  praying 
you  not  to  think  me  guilty  of  sin  without 
pardon.  I  have  deputed  a  messenger  of  trust 
to  scrub  thoroughly  the  country  in  search  of 
Don  Carlos,  death  to  await  him  if  he  return 
without  news  of  my  beloved  senorita.  He  is 
gone  now  twelve  hours.  If  it  arrive  me  at 
any  moment  the  tidings,  I  make  instantly  to 
convey  them  to  your  Excellency,  whether  of 
joy  or  aifliction. 

Receive,  highly  honoured  seiior,  the  assur- 
ance of  my  consideration  the  most  elevated. 

Miguel  Pietoso. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ON   THE   WAY. 

"  Ah,  senorita !  what  will  become  of  us  ? 
I  can  go  no  farther.  Will  this  wilderness 
never  end?" 

"  Courage,  Manuela !  Courage,  daughter  of 
Cuba !  See,  it  is  growing  light  already.  Look 
at  those  streaks  of  gold  in  the  east.  A  few 
moments,  and  the  sky  will  be  bright;  then 
we  shall  see  where  we  are  going,  and  all  will 
be  well.  In  the  meantime,  we  are  free,  and 
on  Cuban  soil.     What  can  harm  us  ? '' 

Rita  looked  around  her  with  kindling  eyes. 
She  was  standing  on  a  rock  that  jutted 
from  the  hillside ;  it  was  a  friendly  rock,  and 
they  had  been  sleeping  under  it,  wrapped  in 
their  warm  cloaks,  for  the  night  was  cool. 


34  RITA. 

A  group  of  palms  nodded  their  green  plumes 
over  the  rock ;  on  every  side  stretched  a  tan- 
gle of  shrubs  and  tall  grasses,  broken  here 
and  there  by  palms,  or  by  rocks  like  this. 
Standing  thus  in  the  early  morning  light, 
Rita  was  a  picturesque  figure  indeed.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  blouse  and  short  skirt  of 
black  serge,  with  a  white  kerchief  knotted 
around  her  throat,  and  another  twisted  care- 
lessly around  her  broad-brimmed  straw  hat. 
Her  beautiful  face  was  alight  with  eager 
inquiry  and  determination ;  her  eyes  roved 
over  the  landscape,  as  if  seeking  some  familiar 
figure ;  but  all  was  strange  so  far.  Manuela, 
crouching  at  the  foot  of  the  rock,  had  lost, 
for  the  moment,  all  the  fire  of  her  patriotism. 
She  was  cold,  poor  Manuela;  also,  she  had 
had  a  heavy  bag  to  carry,  and  her  arms 
ached,  and  she  was  hungry,  and,  if  the  truth 
must  be  told,  rather  cross.  It  was  absurd 
to  bring  all  these  things  into  the  desert. 
What  use  for  the  white  silk  blouse,  or  the 


ON   THE   WAY.  35 

lace  fichu?  but  indeed  they  had  no  weight, 
whereas  this  monster  of  a  — 

"  How  is  Chico  ?  "  asked  Rita,  coming  down 
from  the  rock.  "  Poor  bird !  what  does  he 
think  of  our  wandering  ?  he  must  be  in  need 
of  food,  Manuela.  You  brought  the  box  of 
seed?" 

^^I  did,  senorita;  as  to  the  need  of  bird- 
seed in  a  wilderness  of  hideous  forest,  I  have 
nothing  to  say.  My  fingers  are  so  cramped 
from  carrying  this  detestable  cage,  I  shall 
never  recover  the  full  use  of  them.  But  the 
senorita  must  be  obeyed." 

"  Assuredly  she  must  be  obeyed ! "  said 
Rita ;  and  a  flash  of  her  eyes  added  force  to 
the  words.  ''  Could  I  have  come  away,  I  ask 
you,  and  left  this  faithful,  this  patriot  bird, 
to  starve,  or  be  murdered  outright?  Old 
Julio  would  have  wrung  his  neck,  you  know 
it  well,  Manuela,  the  first  time  he  spoke  out 
from  his  heart,  spoke  the  words  of  freedom 
and  patriotism  that  his  mistress  has  taught 


36  RITA. 

him.  Poor  Chiquito !  thou  lovest  me  ?  thou 
art  glad  that  I  brought  thee  away  from  that 
place  of  tyranny  and  bloodshed  ?  speak  to  thy 
mistress,  Chico ! " 

But  Chico's  spirits  had  been  ruffled,  as 
well  as  Manuela's,  by  being  carried  about  in 
his  cage,  at  unseemly  hours,  when  he  should 
have  been  hanging  quietly  in  the  verandah, 
where  he  belonged.  He  looked  sulky,  and 
only  said,  "  Caramha  !  no  mi  gusta  F' 

"He  is  hungry!  he  starves!"  cried  Rita; 
"give  me  the  seed!"  Sitting  down  on  the 
rock,  she  proceeded  to  feed  the  parrot,  as 
composedly  as  if  they  were  indeed  on  the 
wide  shaded  verandah,  instead  of  on  a  wild 
hillside,  far  from  sight  or  sound  of  anything 
human. 

"  And  the  senorita's  own  breakfast  ?  "  said 
Manuela  at  last,  when  Chiquito  had  had 
enough,  and  had  deigned  to  relax  a  little, 
and  even  to  mutter,  "  Mi  gustan  todas  !  "  "  Is 
the   senorita  not   also  dying  of  hunger?  for 


ON    THE    WAY.  37 

myself^  I  perish^  but  that  is  of  little  conse- 
quence, save  that  my  death  will  leave  the 
senorita  alone  —  with  the  parrot." 

Rita  burst  into  merry  laughter.  "  My  poor 
Manuela !  "  she  said.  "  Thou  shalt  not  perish. 
Breakfast  ?  we  will  have  it  this  moment. 
Where  is  the  bag?" 

The  bag  being  produced,  —  it  really  was  a 
heavy  one,  and  it  was  hardly  to  be  wondered 
at  that  Manuela  should  be  a  little  peevish 
about  it,  —  Rita  drew  from  it  a  substantial 
box  of  chocolate,  and  a  tin  of  biscuits.  "  My 
child,  we  breakfast !  "  she  announced.  "  If 
kings  desire  to  breakfast  more  royally,  I 
make  them  my  compliment.  For  free  Cubans, 
bread  and  chocolate  is  a  feast.  Feast,  then, 
Manuela  mine.     Eat,  and  be  happy !  " 

Bread  —  or  rather,  delicate  biscuits,  and 
chocolate,  were  indeed  a  feast  to  the  two 
hungry  girls.  They  nibbled  and  crunched, 
and  Manuela's  spirits  rose  with  every  bite. 
Rita's  had  no  need  to  rise.     She  was  having 


38  RITA. 

a  real  adventure;  her  dreams  were  coining 
true ;  she  was  a  bona-fide  heroine,  in  a  bona- 
fide  "  situation."  "  What  have  we  in  the 
bag,  best  of  Manuelas?"  she  asked.  "I  told 
you  in  a  general  way;  I  even  added  some 
trifles,  for  Carlos's  comfort ;  poor  dear  Carlos ! 
But  tell  me  what  you  put  in,  my  best  one !  " 

Manuela  cast  a  rueful  glance  at  the  plump 
valise. 

"The  white  silk  blouse,"  she  said;  "the 
white  peignoir  with  swansdown." 

"  In  case  of  sickness !  "  cried  Rita,  interrupt- 
ing. "  You  would  not  have  me  ill,  far  from 
my  home,  and  bereft  of  every  slightest  com- 
fort, Manuela  ?  surely  you  would  not ;  I  know 
your  kind  heart  too  well.  Besides,  the  pei- 
gnoir weighs  nothing;  a  feather,  a  puff  of 
vapour.     Go  on  !  what  else  ?  " 

"  Changes  of  linen,  of  course,"  said 
Manuela.  "The  gold-mounted  toilet-set ;  two 
bottles  of  eau  de  Cologne ;  cigarettes  for  the 
Senorito   Don   Carlos ;   bonbons ;    the   ivory 


ON   THE   WAY.  39 

writing-case;  the  feather  fan;  three  pairs 
of  shoes  —  " 

"  Enough  !  enough ! ''  cried  Rita.  "  We 
shall  do  well,  Manuela.  You  have  been  an 
angel  of  thoughtfulness.  You  did  not  bring 
any  jewels  ?  no  ?  I  thought  perhaps  the 
Etruscan  gold  set,  so  simple,  yet  so  rich, 
might  suit  my  altered  life  well  enough ;  but 
no  matter.  After  all,  what  have  I  to  do 
with  jewels  now  ?  The  next  question  is,  how 
are  we  to  find  Carlos  ?  " 

"To  find  Don  Carlos?"  echoed  Manuela. 
"  You  know  where  he  is,  senorita  ?  " 

"  But,  assuredly ! ''  said  Rita,  and  she 
looked  about  her  confidently.  "  He  is  — 
here  !  " 

"  Here ! ''  repeated  Manuela. 

"  In  the  mountains ! "  said  Rita,  waving 
her  hand  vaguely  in  the  direction  of  the  hori- 
zon. "  It  is  a  search ;  we  must  look  for  him, 
without  doubt ;  but  he  is  —  here  —  some- 
where.     Come,    Manuela,    do    not   look    so 


40  RITA. 

despairing.  I  tell  you,  we  shall  meet  friends, 
it  may  be  at  any  turn.  The  mountains  are 
full  of  the  soldiers  of  Cuba ;  the  first  ones 
we  meet  will  take  us  to  Carlos." 

"  Yes/'  said  Manuela.  "  But  what  if  we 
met  the  others,  seiiorita  ?  what  if  we  met 
the  Spanish  soldiers  first  ?  Hark !  what  was 
thati?" 

A  sound  was  heard  close  behind  them ; 
a  rustling,  sliding  sound,  as  if  something  or 
somebody  were  making  his  way  swiftly 
through  the  tall  grass.  Manuela  clutched 
her  mistress's  arm,  trembling ;  Rita,  rather 
pale,  but  composed,  looking  steadily  in  the 
direction  of  the  noise.  It  came  nearer  — 
the  grass  rustled  and  shook  close  beside 
them;  and  out  from  the  tufted  tangle  came 
—  three  large  land-crabs,  scuttling  along  on 
their  ungainly  claws,  and  evidently  in  a 
hurry.  Manuela  uttered  a  shriek,  but  Rita 
laughed  aloud. 

"  Good  luck  !  "  she  said.     "  They  are  good 


o:n^  the  way.  41 

Cubans,  the  land-crabs.  Many  a  good  meal 
has  Carlos  made  on  them,  poor  fellow.  If 
we  followed  them,  Manuela  ?  They  may  be 
going  —  somewhere.     Let  us  see  !  " 

The  crabs  were  soon  out  of  sight,  but 
the  two  girls,  taking  up  their  burdens,  fol- 
lowed in  the  direction  they  had  taken, 
along  the  hillside,  going  they  knew  not 
whither. 

There  seemed  to  be  some  faint  suggestion 
of  a  path.  The  grasses  were  bent  aside,  and 
broken  here  and  there ;  something  had  trod- 
den here,  whether  feet  of  men  or  of  animals 
one  could  not  tell.  But  glad  to  have  any 
guide,  however  insufficient,  the  girls  amused 
themselves  by  trying  to  discover  fresh  marks 
on  tree  or  shrub  or  grass-clump.  It  was  a 
wild  tangle,  palms  and  mangoes,  coarse 
grass  and  savage-looking  aloes,  with  wild 
vines  running  riot  everywhere.  So  far,  they 
had  seen  no  sign  of  human  life,  and  the  sun 
was  now  well   up,  his   rays    beating   down 


42  RITA. 

bright  and  hot.  Suddenly,  coming  to  a  turn 
on  the  hillside,  they  heard  voices  ;  a  moment 
later,  and  they  were  standing  by  a  human 
dwelling. 

At  first  sight  it  looked  more  like  the  bur- 
row of  some  wild  animal.  It  was  little 
more  than  a  hole  dug  in  the  side  of  the  clay 
bank.  Some  boughs  and  palm-leaves  were 
wattled  together  to  form  a  rustic  porch,  and 
under  this  porch  three  people  were  sitting,  on 
the  bare  ground,  —  two  women,  one  young, 
the  other  old,  and  a  little  child,  evidently 
belonging  to  the  young  woman.  They  were 
clothed  in  a  few  rags ;  their  cheeks  were  hol- 
low with  famine,  their  eyes  burning  with 
fever.  The  old  woman  was  stirring  a  hand- 
ful of  meal  into  a  pot  of  water ;  the  others 
looked  on  with  painful  eagerness.  Rita  re- 
coiled with  a  low  cry  of  terror.  She  had 
heard  of  this;  these  were  some  of  the  un- 
happy peasants  who  had  been  driven  from 
their  farms.     She  had  never  seen  anything 


<'THE    FAMISHED    CHILD    LOOKED    FROM    THE    BISCUIT    TO 
THE    GLOWIXG    FACE." 


ON   THE   WAY.  43 

like  it  before.  This  —  this  was  not  the  play 
she  had  come  to  see. 

The  women  looked  up,  and  saw  the  two 
girls  standing  near.  Instantly  they  began  to 
cry  out,  in  wailing  voices.  "  Go  !  go  away ! 
there  is  nothing  for  you ;  nothing !  we  have 
not  more  than  a  mouthful  for  ourselves. 
Take  yourselves  away,  and  leave  us  in 
peace." 

Rita  came  forward,  the  tears  running  down 
her  cheeks.  "  Oh,  poor  things  !  "  she  cried. 
"  Poor  souls,  I  want  nothing.  I  am  not  hun- 
gry !  See !  —  I  have  brought  food  for  you. 
Quick,  Manuela,  the  bag  —  the  biscuits, 
child !  Give  them  to  me !  Here,  thou  lit- 
tle one,  take  this,  and  eat;  there  is  plenty 
more ! " 

The  famished  child  looked  from  the  biscuit 
to  the  glowing  face  that  bent  over  it.  It 
made  a  feeble  movement ;  then  drew  back  in 
fear.  The  old  woman  still  clamoured  to  the 
girls  to  go  away;  but  the  younger  snatched 


44  RITA. 

the  biscuit^  and  began  feeding  the  child  has- 
tily, yet  carefully.  "  Mother,  be  still !  "  she 
said,  imperiously.  "  Hush  that  noise  !  do  you 
not  see  this  is  no  poor  wretch  like  ourselves  ? 
This  is  a  noble  lady  come  from  heaven  to 
bring  us  help.  Thanks,  senorita  !  "  With  a 
quick,  graceful  movement,  she  lifted  the  hem 
of  Rita's  dress  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 
"  We  were  dying !  "  she  said,  simply.  "  It 
was  the  last  morsel ;  we  meant  to  give  it  to 
the  little  one,  and  some  one  might  find  it 
when  we  were  dead,  and  keep  the  life  in  it." 

"  But,  eat ;  eat !  "  cried  Rita,  filling  the 
hands  of  both  women  with  chocolate  and 
biscuits.  ^^  It  is  dreadful,  terrible!  oh,  I 
have  heard  of  it,  I  have  read  of  it,  but  I 
had  not  seen,  I  had  not  known.  Oh,  if  my 
cousin  Margaret  were  here,  she  would  know 
what  to  do !  Eat,  my  poor  starving  ones. 
You  shall  never  be  hungry  again  if  I  can 
help  it." 

The  child  pulled  its  mother's  ragged  gown. 


OlSr   THE    WAY.  45 

"  Is  it  an  angel  ?  "  it  asked,  its  moutli  full  of 
chocolate. 

"  Hear  the  innocent ! "  said  the  mother. 
^^No,  lamb,  not  yet  an  angel,  only  a  noble 
lady  on  the  road  to  heaven.  See,  senorita! 
he  was  pretty,  while  his  cheeks  were  round 
and  full.  Still,  his  eyes  are  pretty,  are  they 
not?" 

"They  are  lovely!  he  is  a  darling!"  cried 
Rita;  and  she  took  the  child  in  her  arms, 
and  bent  over  him  to  hide  the  tears.  Was 
this  truly  Rita  Montfort  ?  Yes,  the  same  Rita, 
only  awake  now,  for  the  first  time  now  in 
her  pretty  idle  life.  She  felt  of  the  little 
limbs.  They  were  mere  skin  and  bone;  no 
eign  of  baby  chubbiness,  no  curve  or  dimple. 
Indeed,  she  had  come  but  just  in  time. 
"  Listen !  "  she  said,  presently.  "  Where  do 
you  come  from?  where  is  your  home?" 

The  old  woman  made  a  gesture  as  wide 
and  vague  as  Rita's  own  of  a  few  minutes 
before.     "  Our  home,  noble  lady  ?  the  wilder- 


46  RITA. 

ness  is  our  home  to-day.  Our  little  farm, 
our  cottage,  our  patch,  of  cane,  all  gone,  all 
destroyed.  Only  the  graves  of  our  dead 
left." 

"We  come  from  Velaya/'  said  the  young 
woman.  "It  is  miles  from  here;  we  were 
driven  out  by  the  Spaniards.  My  father  was 
killed  before  our  eyes ;  she  is  not  herself  since, 
poor  soul;  do  we  wonder  at  it?  we  have 
wandered  ever  since.  My  husband  —  do  I 
know  if  he  is  alive  or  dead  ?  He  was  with 
our  men,  he  knows  nothing  of  what  has 
happened.  If  he  returns,  he  will  think  us 
all  dead.  Poor  Pedro !  These  are  the  con- 
ditions of  war,  seiiorita." 

She  spoke  very  quietly ;  but  her  simple 
words  pierced  deeper  than  the  plaints  of  the 
poor  old  woman. 

"  Listen,  again !  "  said  Kita.  "  I  am  going 
to  my  brother ;  he  also  is  with  our  army ;  he 
is  with  the  General.  Do  you  know,  can  you 
tell  me,  in  what  direction  to  look  for  them  ? 


ON   THE   WAY.  47 

When  I  find  them,  I  will  see ;  I  will  have  pro- 
vision made  for  you.  You  must  stay  here 
now,  for  a  few  hours ;  but  have  courage, 
help  will  come  soon.  My  brother  Carlos  and 
the  good  General  will  care  for  you.  Only 
tell  me  where  to  find  them,  and  all  will  be 
well." 

She  spoke  so  confidently  that  hope  and 
courage  seemed  to  go  from  her,  and  creep 
into  the  hearts  of  the  forlorn  creatures.  The 
baby  smiled,  and  stretched  out  its  little  flesh- 
less  hands  for  more  of  the  precious  food ; 
even  the  old  grandmother  crept  a  little 
nearer,  to  kiss  the  hand  of  their  benefac- 
tress, and  call  on  all  the  saints  to  bless  her 
and  bring  her  to  Paradise.  The  younger 
woman  said  there  had  been  firing  yester- 
day in  that  direction,  and  she  pointed  west- 
ward over  the  brow  of  a  hill.  They  had  seen 
no  Cuban  soldiers  since  they  had  been  here, 
but  a  boy  had  passed  by  this  morning,  on  his 
way  to  join  the  General,  and  he  took   the 


48  RITA. 

s^me  westerly  direction,  and  said  the  nearest 
pickets  were  not  far  distant. 

^^And  why  did  you  not  follow  him?" 
asked  Rita.  "Why  did  you  not  go  with 
him,  and  throw  yourself  at  the  feet  of  our 
good  General,  as  I  will  do  for  you  now? 
Yes,  yes,  I  know;  you  were  too  weak,  poor 
souls ;  you  had  no  strength  to  travel  farther. 
But  I  am  young  and  strong,  and  so  is  Manu- 
ela ;  and  we  will  go  together,  and  soon  we 
will  come  again,  or  send  help  for  you.  Manu- 
ela,  will  you  come  with  me  ?  or  will  it  be 
better  for  you  to  stay  and  care  for  these  poor 
ones  while  I  seek  Don  Carlos  ?  " 

But  Manuela  wa^,  very  properly,  scandalised 
at  the  thought  of  her  young  lady's  going  off 
alone  on  any  such  quest.  It  appeared,  she 
said,  as  if  the  senorita  had  left  her  excellent 
intelligence  behind  in  Havana.  These  people 
would  do  very  well  now ;  they  had  food ;  they 
had,  indeed,  all  there  was,  practically,  and 
the   senorita    might   herself   starve,   if   they 


OK   THE   WAY.  49 

did  not  find  Don  Carlos  soon.  That  was 
enough^  surely ;  let  them  remain  as  they  were. 

"  You  are  right,  Manuela  !  "  said  Rita,  nod- 
ding sagely.  "  We  must  go  together.  Your 
heart  does  not  appear  to  be  stirred  as  mine 
is  5  but  never  mind — the  hungry  are  fed,  and 
that  is  the  thing  of  importance.  Farewell, 
then,  friends  !  How  do  they  call  you,  that  I 
may  know  how  to  tell  those  whom  I  shall 
send?" 

The  younger  woman  was  named  Dolores, 
she  said.  Her  husband  was  Pedro  Valdez, 
and  this  old  one  was  his  mother.  If  the 
senorita  should  see  Pedro  —  if  by  Heaven's 
mercy  he  should  be  with  the  General  at  this 
moment,  all  would  indeed  be  well.  In  any 
case,  their  prayers  and  blessings  would  go 
with  the  senorita  and  her  valued  attendant. 

Often  and  often,  the  soft  Spanish  speech  of 
compliment  and  ceremony  sounded  hollow  and 
artificial  in  Rita's  ears,  even  though  she 
had  been  used  to  it  all  her  life ;  but  there  was 


50  RITA. 

no  doubting  the  sincerity  of  these  earnest  and 
heartfelt  thanks.  Her  own  heart  felt  very 
warm,  as  she  turned,  with  a  final  wave  of  the 
hands,  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  little  group 
by  the  earth-hovel. 

^^  We  have  made  a  good  beginning,  Manuela/' 
she  said.  ^^  We  have  saved  three  lives,  I  truly 
believe.  Now  we  shall  go  on  with  new  cpur- 
age.  I  feel,  Manuela,  that  I  can  do  anything 
—  meet  any  foe.  Ah  !  what  is  that  ?  a  snake  ! 
a  horrible  green  snake !  I  faint,  Manuela !  I 
die  —  no,  I  don't.  See,  I  am  the  sister  of  a 
soldier,  and  I  am  not  going  to  die  any  more, 
when  I  see  these  fearful  creatures.  Manuela, 
do  you  observe  ?  I  —  am  —  firm  ;  marble, 
Manuela,  is  soft  in  comparison  with  me.  Ah, 
he  is  gone  away.  This  is  a  world  of  peril,  my 
poor  child.  Let  us  hasten  on  ;  Carlos  waits 
for  us,  though  he  does  not  know  it." 

Talking  thus,  with  much  more  of  the  same 
kind,  Rita  pushed  on,  and  Manuela  followed 
as  best  she  might.     Rita  had  left  the  parrot's 


ON   THE   WAY.  51 

cage  under  charge  of  Dolores,  and  carried  the 
bird  on  her  shoulder,  with  only  a  cord  fas- 
tened to  his  leg.  Chico  was  well  used  to 
this,  and  made  no  effort  to  fly  away ;  indeed, 
he  had  reached  an  age  when  it  was  more 
comfortable  to  sit  on  a  soft  shoulder  and  be 
fed  and  petted,  than  to  flutter  among  strange 
trees  and  find  his  living  for  himself;  so  he 
sat  still,  crooning  to  himself  from  time  to 
time,  and  cocking  his  bright  yellow  eye  at  his 
mistress,  to  see  what  she  thought  of  it  all. 

It  was  hard  work,  pushing  through  the 
jungle.  The  girls'  hands  were  scratched  and 
torn  with  brambles;  Rita's  delicate  shoes 
were  in  a  sad  condition;  her  dress  began  to 
show  more  than  one  jagged  rent.  Still  she 
made  her  way  forward,  with  undaunted  zeal, 
cheering  the  weary  Manuela  with  jest  and 
story.  Indeed,  the  girl  seemed  thoroughly 
transformed,  and  her  Northern  cousins,  who 
had  known  and  loved  her  even  in  her  wilful 
indolence,  would  hardly  have  recognised  their 


52  EITA. 

Rita  in  this  valiant  maiden,  who  made 
nothing  of  heat,  dust,  or  even  scorpions,  and 
pressed  on  and  on  in  her  quest  of  her  brother. 
After  an  hour  of  weary  walking,  the  girls 
came  to  a  road,  or  something  that  passed  for 
a  road.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  on  it,  but 
there  was  something  that  made  them  start, 
then  stop  and  look  at  each  other.  Beside  the 
rough  path,  in  a  tangle  of  vines  and  thorny 
cactus,  stood  the  ruin  of  a  tiny  chapel.  A 
group  of  noble  palms  towered  above  it ;  from 
the  stony  bank  behind  it  bubbled  a  little 
fountain.  The  door  of  the  chapel  was  gone  ; 
it  was  long  since  there  had  been  glass  in  the 
windows,  and  the  empty  spaces  showed  only 
emptiness  within;  yet  the  bell  still  hung  in 
the  mouldering  belfry ;  the  bell-rope  trailed 
above  the  sunken  porch,  its  whole  length 
twined  with  flowering  creepers.  It  was  a 
strange  sight. 

"  Manuela !  "  cried  Rita ;  "  do  you  see  ?  " 
"  I   see   the   holy  chapel,"   said   Manuela, 


ON    THE    WAY.  53 

who  was  a  good  Catholic.  "  Some  samtly 
man  lived  here  in  old  times.  Pity,  that  the 
altar  is  gone.  It  must  have  been  a  pretty 
chapel,  seiiorita." 

"  The  bell !  "  cried  Rita.  "  Do  you  see  the 
bell,  Manuela  ?  what  if  we  rang  it,  to  let 
Carlos  know  that  we  are  near  ?  It  is  a  good 
idea,  a  superb  idea  !  " 

"Seiiorita,  I  implore  you  not  to  touch  it! 
For  heaven's  sake,  senorita !  Alas,  what  have 
you  done  ?  " 

Manuela  clasped  her  hands,  and  fairly 
wailed  in  terror,  for  Rita  had  grasped  the 
bell-rope,  and  was  pulling  it  with  right  good 
will.  Ding!  ding!  the  notes  rang  out  loud 
and  clear.  The  rock  behind  caught  up  the 
echo,  and  sent  it  flying  across  to  the  hill 
beyond.  Ding  !  ding  !  The  parrot  screamed, 
and  Rita  herself,  after  sounding  two  or  three 
peals,  dropped  the  rope,  and  stood  with 
parted  lips  and  anxious  eyes,  waiting  to  see 
what  would  come  of  it. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    CAMP    AMONG    THE    HILLS. 

A  SOUND  of  voices !  eager  voices  of  men, 
calling  to  one  another.  The  tread  of  hasty 
feet,  the  noise  of  breaking  bushes,  of  men 
sliding,  jumping,  running,  hurrying,  coming 
every  instant  nearer  and  nearer.  What  had 
Rita  done,  indeed  ?  Manuela  crouched  on 
the  mouldering  floor  at  her  mistress's  feet, 
too  terrified  even  to  cry  out  now ;  Rita  Mont- 
fort  drew  her  dagger,  and  waited. 

Next  instant  the  narrow  doorway  was 
thronged  with  men;  swarthy  black-browed 
men,  ragged,  hatless,  shoeless,  but  all  armed, 
all  with,  rifle  cocked,  all  pressing  forward 
with  eager,  wondering  looks. 

"Who  rang  the  bell?  what  has  hap- 
pened?" 

54 


THE    CAMP   AMONG   THE    HILLS.  55 

A  babel  of  voices  arose  j  Rita  could  not 
have  made  herself  heard  if  she  would;  and, 
indeed,  for  the  moment  no  words  came  to  her 
lips.  But  there  was  one  to  speak  for  her. 
Chiquito,  the  old  gray  parrot,  raised  his  head 
from  her  shoulder,  where  he  had  been  quietly 
dozing,  and  flapped  his  wings,  and  cried 
aloud : 

"  Viva  Cuba  Libre!  viva  Garcia!  viva 
Gomez  !  a  muerto  Espana  !  "  There  was  a 
moment's  silence ;  then  the  voices  broke  out 
again  in  wild  cries  and  cheers. 

"  Ah,  the  Cuban  bird !  the  parrot  of  free- 
dom !  Welcome,  senorita !  You  bring  us 
good  luck !  Welcome  to  the  Cuban  ladies  and 
their  glorious  bird  !  Viva  Cuba  Libre  !  viva 
Garcia  !  viva  el  papageno  !  long  life  to  the 
illustrious  lady !  " 

Rita,  herself  again,  stepped  from  the 
chapel,  erect  and  joyous,  holding  the  parrot 
aloft. 

"  I  thank  you,  brothers  !  "  she   said.     "  I 


56 


KITA. 


come  to  seek  freedom  among  you ;  I  am  a 
daughter  of  Cuba.  Does  any  among  you 
know  Don  Carlos  Montf ort  ?  " 

The  babel  rose  again.  Know  Don  Carlos  ? 
but  surely  !  was  he  not  their  captain  ?  Even 
now  he  was  at  the  General's  quarters,  con- 
sulting him  about  the  movements  of  the  next 
day.  What  joy!  what  honour  for  the  poor 
sons  of  Cuba  to  form  the  escort  of  the  peer- 
less sister  of  Don  Carlos  to  headquarters ! 
But  the  distance  was  nothing.  They  would 
carry  the  senorita  and  her  attendant ;  they 
would  make  a  throne,  and  transport  them  as 
lightly  as  if  swans  drew  them.  Ah,  the  for- 
tunate day!  the  lucky  omen  of  the  blessed 
parrot ! 

They  babbled  like  children,  crowding  round 
Chiquito,  extolling  his  beauty,  his  wisdom, 
the  miracle  of  his  timely  utterance.  Chiquito 
seemed  to  think,  for  his  part,  that  he  had 
done  enough.  He  paid  no  attention  to  the 
blandishments  of    his  ragged    admirers,  but 


THE    CAMP   AMONG   THE    HILLS.  57 

turned  himself  upside  down,  always  a  sign  of 
contempt  with  him,  said  "  Caramba ! "  and 
would  say  nothing  more. 

A  little  procession  was  formed,  the  least 
ragged  of  the  patriots  leading  the  way, 
Rita  and  Manuela  following.  The  others 
crowded  together  behind,  exclaiming,  won- 
dering, pleased  as  children  with  this  wonder- 
ful happening.  Thus  they  crossed  a  ragged 
hill,  threaded  a  grove  of  palms,  and  finally 
came  upon  an  open  space,  roughly  cleared, 
in  the  middle  of  which  stood  a  tent,  with 
several  rude  huts  around  it.  The  soldiers 
explained  with  eager  gestures.  Behold  the 
tent  of  the  illustrious  General.  Behold  the 
dwelling  of  Don  Rodrigo,  of  Don  Uberto,  of 
Don  Carlos ;  behold,  finally,  Don  Carlos  him- 
self, emerging  from  the  General's  tent.  The 
gallant  ragamuffins  drew  back,  and  became 
on  the  instant  spectators  at  a  play.  A  slen- 
der young  man  came  out  of  the  tent,  evi- 
dently to  inquire  the  meaning  of  the  commo- 


58  KITA. 

tion.  At  what  he  saw  he  turned  apparently 
to  stone,  and  stood,  cigarette  in  hand,  staring 
at  the  vision  before  him.  But  for  Rita  there 
was  no  hesitation  now.  Running  to  her 
brother,  she  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck 
with  unaffected  joy. 

"  Carlos  !  "  she  cried.  "  I  have  come  to 
you.  I  had  no  one  else  to  go  to.  They 
were  taking  me  to  the  convent,  and  I  would 
have  died  sooner.  I  have  come  to  you,  to 
live  or  die  with  you,  for  our  country." 

Manuela  wept ;  the  soldiers  were  moved  to 
tears,  and  brushed  their  ragged  sleeves  across 
their  eyes.  But  Carlos  Montfort  did  not 
weep. 

"  Rita !  "  he  said,  in  English,  returning  his 
sister's  caress  affectionately,  but  with  little 
demonstration  of  joy.  "  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this  ?  what  induced  you  —  how  could 
you  do  such  a  thing  as  this  ?  where  do  you 
come  from  ?  how  did  you  find  your  w^ay  ? " 
And  he  added  to  himself 5  "And  what  the 


THE  CAMP  AMONG  THE  HILLS.     59 

mischief  am  I  to  do  with  you  now  you 
are  here  ?  " 

Rita  explained  hastily;  gave  a  dramatic 
sketch  of  her  adventures,  not  forgetting  the 
unfortunate  peasants,  who  must,  she  said,  be 
rescued  that  instant  from  their  wretched 
plight;  and  wound  up  with  a  vivid  descrip- 
tion of  the  bell-ringing,  the  gathering  of 
the  patriot  forces,  and  the  magnificent  beha- 
viour of  her  beloved  Chiquito. 

"  Good  gracious !  you  have  brought  the 
parrot,  too  !  "  cried  poor  Carlos.  ''  Rita ! 
Rita!  this  is  too  much." 

At  this  moment  a  new  person  appeared  on 
the  scene.  A  tall  old  man,  stooping  his  head, 
came  out  from  the  tent,  and  greeted  the  wan- 
dering damsel  with  grave  courtesy. 

Perhaps  the  General  had  seen  too  much  of 
life  and  of  war  to  be  surprised  at  anything ; 
perhaps  he  was  sorry  for  the  embarrassment 
of  his  young  lieutenant,  and  wished  to  make 
things  easier  for  him  ;  however  it  was,  he  ap- 


60  KITA. 

parently  found  it  the  most  natural  thing  Ik 
the  world  for  a  young  lady  and  her  maid  to 
be  wandering  in  the  wilderness  in  search  of 
the  Cuban  army.  The  first  thing,  he  said, 
was  to  make  the  seiiorita  comfortable,  as 
comfortable  as  their  limited  powers  would 
allow.  She  would  take  his  tent,  of  course  ; 
it  was  her  own  from  that  instant ; .  but 
equally  of  course  neither  Rita  nor  Carlos 
would  hear  of  this.  A  friendly  dispute  en- 
sued ;  and  it  was  finally  decided  that  Rita  and 
Manuela  were  to  make  themselves  as  com- 
fortable as  might  be  in  Carlos's  own  tent, 
while  he  shared  that  of  his  commander.  The 
General  yielded  only  under  protest  to  this 
arrangement;  yet  he  did  yield,  seeing  that 
resistance  would  distress  both  brother  and 
sister.  Since  the  senorita  would  not  take  his 
tent,  he  said,  the  next  best  thing  was  that  she 
should  accept  his  hospitality,  such  as  he  could 
offer  her,  within  it ;  or  rather,  before  it,  since 
the  evening  was  warm.     His  men  were  even 


THE    CAMP    iiMONG   THE   HILLS.  61 

now  preparing  the  evening  meal;  when  the 
senorita  was  refreshed  and  rested,  he  hoped 
she  and  Don  Carlos  would  share  it  with  him. 

Rita  withdrew  into  the  little  hut,  in  a  glow 
of  patriotism  and  enthusiasm.  "  Manuela/' 
she  cried,  "  did  you  ever  see  such  nobleness, 
such  lofty  yet  gracious  courtesy  ?  Ah  !  I  knew 
he  was  a  man  to  die  for.  How  happy  we 
are,  to  be  here  at  last,  after  dreaming  of  it 
so  long  !  I  thrill ;  I  burn  with  sacred  fire  — 
what  is  the  matter,  Manuela?  you  look  the 
spirit  of  gloom.     What  has  happened  ?  " 

Manuela  was  crouching  on  the  bare  earthen 
floor,  her  shoulders  shrugged  up  to  her  ears, 
her  dark  eyes  glancing  around  the  tiny  room 
with  every  expression  of  marked  disapproval. 
It  was  certainly  not  a  luxurious  apartment. 
The  low  walls  were  of  rough  logs,  the  roof  was 
a  ragged  piece  of  very  dingy  canvas,  held  in 
place  by  stones  here  and  there.  In  one  corner 
was  a  pile  of  dried  grass  and  leaves,  with 
a  blanket  thrown  over  it,  —  evidently   Don 


62  RITA. 

Carlos's  bed.  There  was  a  camp-stool,  a 
rude  box  set  on  end,  that  seemed  to  do 
duty  both  for  dressing  and  writing  table, 
since  it  was  littered  with  papers,  shaving 
materials,  cigarette-cases,  and  a  variety  of 
other  articles. 

Manuela  spread  out  her  arms  with  a  de- 
spairing gesture.  Was  this,  she  asked^  the 
place  where  the  senorita  was  going  to  live? 
Where  was  she  to  hang  the  dresses?  where 
was  she  to  lay  out  the  dressing  things  ?  As  to 
making  up  the  bed,  —  it  would  be  better 
to  die  at  once,  in  Manuela's  opinion,  than  to 
live —  Here  Manuela  stopped  suddenly,  for 
she  had  seen  something.  Rita,  whose  back 
was  turned  to  the  doorway  of  the  hut,  was 
rating  her  severely.  Was  this  Manuela's 
patriotism,  she  wished  to  know  ?  had  she  not 
said,  over  and  over  again,  that  she  was  pre- 
pared to  shed  the  last  drop  of  blood  for  their 
country,  as  she  herself,  Rita,  was  longing  to 
do  ?  and  now^  when  it  was  simply  a  question 


THE    CAMP   AMONG   THE    HILLS.  63 

of  a  little  discomfort^  of  a  few  privations 
shared  with  their  brave  defenders^  here  was 
Manuela  complaining  and  fretting,  like  a 
peevish  child.  Well !  and  what  was  the 
matter  now  ? 

Manuela  had  risen  from  her  despairing 
position,  and  was  now  bustling  about  the  hut, 
brushing,  smoothing,  tidying  up,  with  an 
air  of  smiling  alacrity.  But  indeed,  yes  !  she 
said ;  the  seiiorita  put  her  to  shame.  If  the 
senorita  could  endure  these  trials,  it  was 
not  for  her  poor  Manuela  to  complain.  No, 
indeed,  sooner  would  she  die.  And  after  all, 
the  hut  was  small,  but  that  made  things  more 
handy,  perhaps.  The  beautiful  table  that 
this  would  become,  if  she  might  remove  the 
Senor  Don  Carlos's  cigar-ashes  ?  there  !  a  scarf 
thrown  over  it  —  ah !  what  fortune,  that  she 
had  brought  the  crimson  satin  scarf !  behold, 
an  exhibition  of  beauty !  As  for  the  bed, 
she  had  heard  from  —  from  those  who  were 
soldiers  themselves,  that  no  couch  was  so  soft, 


64  RITA. 

SO  wooing  to  sleep^  as  one  of  forest  boughs. 
It  stood  to  reason;  there  was  poetry  in  the 
thought,  as  the  senorita  justly  remarked. 
Now,  with  a  few  nails  or  pegs  to  hang  things 
on,  their  little  apartment  would  be  complete. 
Let  the  senorita  of  her  goodness  forget  the 
foolishness  of  her  poor  Manuela ;  she  should 
hear  no  more  of  it ;  that  was  a  promise. 

Rita  looked  in  amazement  at  her  follower ; 
the  girl's  eyes  were  sparkling,  her  cheeks 
flushed,  and  she  could  not  keep  back  the 
smiles  that  came  dimpling  and  rippling  over 
her  pretty  face. 

"  But  what  has  happened  to  you,  Manuela?" 
cried  Rita.  "  I  insist  upon  knowing.  What 
have  you  seen  ? " 

What  had  Manuela  seen,  to  produce  such 
a  sudden  and  amazing  change  ?  Nothing, 
surely  ;  or  next  to  nothing.  A  ragged  soldier 
had  strolled  past  the  door  of  the  hut;  a 
black-browed  fellow,  with  a  red  handkerchief 
tied  over  his  head,  and  a  black  cigar  nearly 


THE    CAMP   AMONG   THE    HILLS.  65 

a  foot  long ;  but  what  should  that  matter  to 
Manuela  ? 

Rita  looked  at  her  curiously,  but  could 
get  no  explanation,  save  that  Manuela  had 
come  to  her  senses,  owing  to  the  noble 
and  glorious  example  set  her  by  her  beloved 
seiiorita. 

"  Well ! "  said  Rita,  turning  away  half- 
petulantly.  ''  Of  course  I  know  you  are  as 
changeable  as  a  weathercock,  Manuela.  But 
as  you  were  saying,  if  we  had  a  few  nails,  we 
should  do  well  enough  here.  I  will  go  ask 
the  Seiior  Don  Carlos  —  " 

"  Pardon,  dearest  seiiorita  !  "  cried  Manuela, 
hastily.  ^^But  what  a  pity  that  would  be, 
to  disturb  the  senor  during  his  arduous  labours. 
Without  doubt  the  illustrious  Senor  Don 
Generalissimo  (Manuela  loved  a  title,  and 
always  made  the  most  of  one)  requires  him 
every  instant,  in  the  affairs  of  the  nation. 
I — I  can  find  some  one  who  will  get  nails 
for  us,  and  drive  them  also." 


66  RITA. 

^^You  can  find  some  one?"  repeated 
Eita.  ^^And  whom,  then,  can  you  find, 
pray?'' 

"  Only  Pepe ! "  said  Manuela,  in  a  small 
voice. 

Was  the  name  a  conjnring-spell  ?  It  had 
hardly  been  spoken  when  Pepe  himself  stood 
in  the  doorway,  ducking  respectfully  at  the 
senorita,  but  looking  out  of  the  corners  of  his 
black  eyes  at  Manuela.  Rita  smiled  in  spite 
of  herself.  Was  this  ragamuffin,  barefoot, 
tattered,  his  hair  in  elf-locks,  —  was  this 
the  once  elegant  Pepe,  the  admired  of  himself 
and  all  the  waiting-maids  of  Havana  ?  He 
had  once  been  Carlos's  servant,  when  the 
young  Cuban  had  time  and  taste  for  such  idle 
luxuries ;  now  he  was  his  fellow  soldier  and 
faithful  follower. 

"Well,  Pepe,''  said  Rita;  "you  also  are 
here  to  welcome  us,  it  appears.  That  is  well. 
If  you  could  find  us  a  few  nails,  my  good 
Pepe  ?  the  Senor  Don  Carlos  is  occupied  with 


THE    CAMP   AMONG   THE   HILLS.  67 

the  General  at  present,  and  you  can  help  us, 
if  you  will." 

Where  had  Rita  learned  this  new  and 
gracious  courtesy?  A  few  months  ago,  she 
would  have  said,  "  Pepe  !  drive  nails  !  "  and 
thought  no  more  about  it.  Indeed,  she  could 
have  given  no  explanation,  save  that  "  things 
were  different."  Perhaps  our  Rita  is  grow- 
ing up,  inside  as  well  as  outside  ?  Certainly 
the  pretty  airs  and  graces  have  given  way  to 
a  womanly  and  thoughtful  look  not  at  all 
unbecoming  to  any  face,  however  beautiful. 

The  thoughtful  look  deepened  into  anx- 
iety, as  a  sudden  recollection  flashed  into  her 
mind.  "  Oh  !  "  she  cried.  "  And  here  I  sit 
in  peace,  and  have  done  nothing  about  those 
poor  creatures  in  the  hut !  I  must  go  to  the 
General !  but  stay !  Pepe,  do  you  know  —  is 
there  a  man  in  the  camp  called  Pedro 
Valdez?" 

But,  yes  !  Pepe  said.  Assuredly  there  was 
such  a  man.     Did  the  senorita  require  him  ? 


68  RITA. 

"  Oh,  please  bring  him  !  "  said  Rita.  "  Tell 
him  that  I  have  something  of  importance  to 
tell  him.     Quick,  my  good  Pepe  !  " 

Pepe  vanished,  and  soon  returned,  drag- 
ging by  the  collar  a  lean  scarecrow  even 
more  dilapidated  than  himself.  Apparently 
the  poor  fellow  had  been  asleep,  and  had  been 
roughly  clutched  and  hauled  across  the  camp, 
for  his  hair  was  full  of  leaves  and  grass,  and 
he  was  rubbing  his  eyes  and  swearing  softly 
under  his  breath,  vowing  vengeance  on  his 
captor. 

"  Silence,  animal !  "  said  Pepe,  admonish- 
ing him  by  a  kick  of  the  presence  of  ladies ; 
"  Behold  the  illustrious  senorita,  who  does 
you  the  honour  to  look  at  you.  Attention, 
Swine, of  the  Antilles  !  " 

Thus  adjured,  poor  Pedro  straightened 
himself,  made  the  best  bow  he  could,  and 
stood  sheepishly  before  Rita,  trying  furtively 
to  brush  a  few  of  the  sticks  and  straws  off 
his  ragged  clothing. 


THE    CAMP    AMONG    THE    HILLS.  69 

"  You  are  Pedro  Valdez  ?  "  asked  Rita. 

At  the  service  of  the  illustrious  senorita. 
Yes,  he  was  Pedro  Valdez;  in  no  condition 
to  appear  in  such  company,  but  nevertheless 
her  slave  and  her  beast  of  burden. 

"  Oh,  listen !  "  cried  Rita,  her  eyes  softening 
with  compassion  and  anxiety.  "  You  have 
a  wife,  Pedro  Valdez,  —  a  wife  and  a  dear 
little  child,  is  it  not  so?  and  your  mother — 
she  is  old  and  weak.  When  have  you  seen 
them  all,  Valdez?  Where  did  you  leave 
them?" 

The  man  looked  bewildered.  "Leave 
them,  senorita  ?  I  left  them  at  home,  in 
our  village.  They  were  well,  all  was  well, 
when  I  came  away.  Has  anything  befallen 
them?" 

"They  are  safe!  All  is  well  with  them 
now,  or  will  be  well,  when  you  go  to  them. 
They  are  near  here,  Valdez.  The  Spaniards 
broke  up  the  village,  do  you  see  ?  Dolores 
and  your  mother  fled  with  the  little  one.     The 


70  RITA. 

village  was  burned^  and  many  souls  perished ; 
but  Dolores  was  so  strong,  so  brave,  that 
she  got  the  old  mother  away  alive  and  safe, 
and  the  child  as  well.  They  have  suffered 
terribly,  my  poor  man ;  you  must  look  to  find 
them  pale  and  thin,  but  they  are  alive,  and 
all  will  be  well  when  once  they  have  found 

you." 

Seeing  Valdez  overcome  for  the  moment, 
Eita  hastened  to  the  General's  tent  and  told 
her  story,  begging  that  the  husband  and 
father  might  be  allowed  to  go  at  once  to  the 
relief  of  his  suffering  family. 

"  And  he  shall  bring  them  here,  shall  he 
not  ?  "  she  cried,  eagerly.  "  They  cannot  be 
separated  again,  can  they,  dear  Senor  General  ? 
you  will  make  room  for  Dolores  —  that  is  the 
wife ;  oh,  such  a  brave  woman !  and  the  old 
mother,  and  the  dear  little  child  !  " 

The  General  looked  puzzled ;  a  look  half 
quizzical,  half  sad,  stole  over  his  fine  face ; 
while  he  hesitated,  Carlos  broke  out  hastily : 


THE    CAMP    AMONG    THE    HILLS.  71 

"  Rita  !  you  are  too  unreasonable  !  Do  you 
think  we  are  in  a  city  here  ?  do  you  think  the 
General  has  everything  at  his  command,  to 
maintain  an  establishment  of  women  and 
children?  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  We 
have  no  room,  no  supplies,  no  conveniences  of 
any  kind  ;  they  must  go  elsewhere.'' 

"  They  can  have  my  house ! "  cried  Rita, 
"  Your  house,  brother  Carlos,  which  you  have 
given  to  me.  I  will  sleep  in  a  hammock, 
under  a  tree.  What  matter  ?  I  will  live  on 
bread  and  water;  I  will  —  " 

"  My  dear  young  lady !  "  said  the  General, 
interrupting  her  eager  speech  with  a  lifted 
hand.  "  My  dear  child,  if  an  old  man  may 
call  you  so,  if  only  we  had  bread  for  all, 
there  would  be  no  further  question.  We 
would  gladly  take  these  poor  people,  and 
hundreds  of  other  suffering  ones  who  fill 
the  hills  and  valleys  of  our  unhappy  country. 
But  —  Carlos  is  right,  alas !  that  I  must  say 
it.     Here  in  the  mountain  camp,  it  is  impossi- 


72  RITA. 

ble  for  us  to  harbour  refugees,  unless  for  a 
night  or  so,  while  other  provision  is  making. 
Let  Valdez  bring  his  family  here  for  the 
night  —  we  can  make  shift  to  feed  and 
shelter  them  so  long.     After  that  — " 

He  shook  his  head  sadly.  Rita  clasped  her 
hands  in  distress.  To  be  brought  face  to  face 
with  the  impossible  was  a  new  experience  to 
the  spoiled  child.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence.     Then : 

"  Senor  General/'  she  cried,  ''  I  know !  I 
see  !  all  may  yet  be  managed.  They  shall  go 
to  our  house." 

^^To  — '' 

"  To  our  house,  Carlos's  andmine,in  Havana. 
There  are  servants,  troops  of  them ;  there  is 
food,  drink,  everything,  in  abundance,  in 
wicked,  shameful  abundance.  Julio  shall  take 
care  of  them ;  Julio  shall  treat  them  as  his 
mother  and  his  sister.  I  will  write  commands 
to  him ;  this  instant  I  will  write." 

Snatching  a  sheet  of  paper  from  the  table, 


THE    CAMP   AMONG   THE    HILLS.  73 

she  wrote  furiously  for  a  moment,  then  handed 
the  paper  to  the  General  with  a  look  of  satis- 
faction. The  General  —  oh,  how  slow  he 
was!  —  adjusted  his  glasses,  and  read  the 
paper  carefully j  looked  at  Rita;  looked  at 
Carlos,  and  read  the  paper  again.  Rita 
clenched  her  little  hands,  but  was  calm  as 
marble,  as  she  assured  herself.  "  Have  I  the 
senorita's  permission  to  read  this  aloud?" 
asked  the  old  man  at  last.  "  It  may  be 
that  Don  Carlos's  advice  —  a  thousand  thanks, 
senorita."     He  read : 

"  Julio  :  —  The  bearer  of  this  is  the  wife  of 
Pedro  Valdez.  You  are  to  take  her  and  her 
family  in,  and  give  them  the  best  the  house 
contains ;  the  best,  do  you  hear  ?  put  them 
in  the  marble  guest-chamber,  and  place  the 
house  at  their  disposal.  Send  for  Doctor 
Blanco  to  attend  them ;  let  Teresa  wait  upon 
them,  and  let  her  furnish  them  with  clothes 
from   my   wardrobe.     If   you  do  not  do  all 


74  RITA. 

this,  Julio,  I  will  have   you   killed;  so  fail 
not  as  you  value  your  life. 

"  Margarita  de  San  Real  Montfort. 

"  P.  S.  The  Seiior  Don  Carlos  is  here  with 
me,  and  echoes  what  I  say.  We  are  with  the 
brave  General  Sevillo,  and  if  you  dare  to 
disobey,  terrible  revenge  will  be  taken." 

"  The  ardent  patriotism  of  the  senorita,'' 
said  the  General,  cautiously,  "  is  beautiful  and 
inspiring ;  nevertheless,  is  it  not  possible  that 
a  more  conciliatory  tone  might  —  I  would 
not  presume  to  dictate,  but  —  " 

^^Oh,  Rita!"  cried  Carlos.  ^^ Child,  when 
will  you  learn  that  we  are  no  longer  acting 
plays  at  home  ?     This  is  absurd  !  " 

With  an  impatient  movement  that  might 
have  been  Rita's  own,  he  snatched  the  paper 
and  tore  it  in  two.  "  The  General  cannot  be 
troubled  with  such  folly ! "  he  said,  shortly. 
^^Go  to  your  room,  my  sister,  and  repose 
yourself  after  your  fatigues." 


THE    CAMP   AMONG    THE    HILLS.  75 

"  By  no  means  ! ''  cried  the  kindly  General, 
seeing  Rita's  eyes  fill  with  tears  of  anger  and 
mortification.  "The  senorita  has  promised 
to  make  my  tea  for  me  this  evening.  Give 
orders,  I  pray  you,  Don  Carlos,  that  Valdez 
bring  his  family  to  us  for  the  night ;  the  rest 
can  well  wait  for  to-morrow's  light.  The 
senorita  is  exhausted,  I  fear,  with  her  mani- 
fold fatigues,  and  she  must  have  no  more 
anxieties  to-day.  Behold  the  tea  at  this 
moment!  Senorita  Rita,  this  will  be  the 
pleasantest  meal  I  have  had  since  I  left  my 
home,  two  years  ago." 

No  anger  could  stand  against  the  General's 
smile.  In  a  moment  Rita  was  smiling  herself, 
though  the  tears  still  stood  in  her  dark  eyes, 
and  one  great  drop  even  rolled  down  her 
cheek,  to  the  General's  great  distress.  Carlos, 
seeing  with  contrition  his  sister's  effort  at 
self-control,  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek  and  mur- 
mur a  few  affectionate  words.  Soon,  they 
were  all  seated  around  the  little  table,  Rita 


76  KITA. 

and  the  General  on  camp-stools^  Carlos  on  a 
box.  The  tea  was  smoking  hot;  what  did 
it  matter  that  the  nose  of  the  teapot  was 
broken  ?  Rita  had  never  tasted  anything  so 
delicious  as  that  cup  of  hot  tea^  without  milk, 
and  with  a  morsel  of  sugar-cane  for  sweeten- 
ing. The  camp  fare,  biscuits  soaked  in  water 
and  fried  in  bacon  fat,  was  better,  she.  de- 
clared, than  any  food  she  had  ever  tasted  in 
her  life.  To  her  delight,  a  small  box  of 
chocolate  still  remained  in  her  long-suffering 
bag ;  this  she  presented  to  the  General  with 
her  prettiest  courtesy,  and  he  vowed  he  was 
not  worthy  to  taste  such  delicacies  from  such 
a  hand.  So,  with  interchange  of  compliments, 
and  with  a  real  friendliness  that  was  far  better, 
the  little  feast  went  on  gaily;  and  when,  late 
in  the  evening,  Rita  withdrew  to  her  tent, 
she  told  Manuela  that  she  had  never  enjoyed 
anything  so  much  in  her  life ;  never ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

to   margaket. 

Camp  of  the  Sons  of  Cuba, 
May  the  — ,  Midnight. 

My  Marguerite  :  —  What  will  you  say 
when  your  eyes,  those  calm  gray  eyes,  rest 
upon  the  above  heading?  Will  they  open 
wider,  I  ask  myself?  will  the  breath  come 
quicker  between  those  cool  rose-leaves  of  your 
lips  ?  "  It  is  true  !  "  you  will  murmur  to  your- 
self. "  She  has  done  as  she  said,  as  she  swore 
she  would.  My  Rita,  my  wild  pomegranate 
flower,  has  kept  her  vow;  she  is  in  the 
mountains  with  Carlos ;  she  has  taken  her 
place  beside  the  defenders  of  her  country." 

Ah !  you  thought  it  was  play.  Marguerite, 
confess  it !  You  thought  the  wild  Cuban  girl 
was  uttering  empty   breath  of  nothingness; 

77 


78  RITA. 

you  have  had  no  real  anxiety,  you  never 
dreamed  that  I  should  really  find  myself  — 
where  now  I  am.  Where  is  it?  Listen, 
Marguerite  !  My  house  —  once  Carlos's  house, 
now  mine  by  his  brotherly  gift  —  stands  in 
a  little  glen  of  the  hills.  An  open  space, 
once  dry  grass,  now  bare  earth,  baked  by  the 
sun,  trodden  by  many  feet ;  a  cluster  of  palms, 
a  mountain  spring  gushing  from  a  rock  hard 
by;  on  every  side  hills,  the  brown,  rugged 
hills  of  Cuba,  fairer  to  me  than  cloudy  Alps 
of  Italy,  or  those  other  great  mountains  of 
which  never  can  I  remember  the  barbarous 
names.  To  teach  me  geography,  Marguerite, 
you  never  could  succeed,  you  will  remember ; 
more  than  our  poor  Peggy  history.  Poor 
little  Peggy!  I  could  wish  she  were  here 
with  me;  it  would  be  the  greatest  pleasure 
of  her  life.  For  you,  Marguerite,  the  scene 
is  too  wild,  too  stern ;  but  Peggy  has  a 
martial  spirit  under  her  somewhat  clumsy 
exterior.     But  I  wander,  and  Peggy  is  with- 


TO   MARGARET.  79 

out  doubt  sleeping  at  this  moment  under  the 
stern  eye  of  her  schoolmistress.  I  began  to 
tell  you  about  my  house,  Marguerite.  So 
small  a  house  you  saw  never.  Standing,  I 
reach  up  my  hand  and  touch  the  roof,  of 
brown  canvas,  less  fresh  than  once  it  was. 
Sitting,  I  stretch  out  my  arms  —  here  is  one 
wall ;  there  —  almost,  but  a  few  feet  between 
—  is  the  other.  In  a  corner  my  bed  —  ah. 
Marguerite  !  on  your  white  couch  there,  with 
snowy  draperies  falling  softly  about  you, 
consider  my  bed !  a  pile  of  dried  grasses  and 
leaves,  shaken  and  tossed  anew  every  morn- 
ing, covered  with  a  camp  blanket.  I  tell  you, 
the  gods  might  sleep  on  it,  and  ask  no  better. 
.In  another  corner  sleeps  Manuela,  my  faithful 
maid,  my  humble  friend,  the  companion  of  my 
wanderings.  Some  day  you  shall  see  Manuela ; 
she  is  an  excellent  creature.  Cultivated,  no ; 
intellinctual  —  what  is  that  for  a  word.  Mar- 
guerite? Ah!  when  will  you  learn  Spanish, 
that  I  may  pour  my  soul  with  freedom  ?  —  no ; 


80  RITA. 

but  a  heart  of  gold,  a  spirit  of  fire  and  crystal. 
She  keeps  my  hut  neat,  she  arranges  my 
toilet,  —  singular  toilets,  my  dear,  yet  not 
wholly  unbecoming,  I  almost  fancy,  —  she 
helps  me  in  a  thousand  ways.  She  has  a 
little  love-affair,  that  is  a  keen  interest  to  me ; 
Pepe,  formerly  the  servant  of  Carlos,  adores 
her,  and  she  casts  tender  eyes  upon  the  young 
soldier.  For  me,  as  you  know.  Marguerite, 
these  things  are  for  ever  past,  buried  in  the 
grave  of  my  hero,  in  the  stately  tomb  that 
hides  the  ashes  of  the  Santillos.  I  take  a 
sorrowful  pleasure  in  watching  the  budding 
happiness  of  these  young  creatures.  More 
of  this  another  time. 

I  sit,  Marguerite,  in  the  doorway  of  my 
little  house.  It  is  the  middle  hour  of  the 
night,  when  tomb-yards  gape,  as  your  Shake- 
speare says.  Am  I  sleepy  ?  No !  The  camp 
slumbers,  but  I  —  I  am  awake,  and  I  watch. 
I  had  a  very  long  siesta,  too.  The  moon  is 
full,  and  the  little  glade  is  bathed  in  silver 


TO   MARGARET.  81 

light.  Here  in  Cuba,  Marguerite,  the  moon 
is  other  than  with  you  in  the  north.  You 
call  her  pale  moon,  gentle  moon,  I  know  not 
what.  Here  she  shines  fiercely,  with  passion, 
with  palpitations  of  fiery  silver.  The  palms, 
the  aloes,  the  tangled  woods  about  the  camp, 
are  black  as  night ;  all  else  is  a  flood  of  airy 
silver.  I  float,  I  swim  in  this  flood,  entranced, 
enraptured.  I  ask  myself,  have  I  lived  till 
now  ?  is  not  this  the  first  real  thrill  of  life 
I  have  ever  experienced  ?  I  alone  wake,  as 
I  said ;  the  others  slumber  profoundly.  The 
General  in  his  tent ;  ah,  that  you  could  know 
him,  Marguerite !  that  you  and  my  uncle 
could  embrace  this  noble,  this  godlike  figure ! 
He  is  no  longer  young,  the  snows  of  seventy 
winters  have  blanched  his  clustering  locks ; 
it  is  the  only  sign  of  age.  For  the  rest,  erect, 
vigorous,  a  knight,  a  paladin,  a  —  in  effect, 
a  son  of  Cuba.  The  younger  officers  regard 
him  as  a  divinity;  they  live  or  die  at  his 
command.      They  are   three,   these   officers; 


82  KITA. 

Carlos  is  one  ;  the  others,  Don  Alonzo  Ximenes, 
Don  Uberto  Cortez.  Don  Alonzo  is  not 
interesting ;  he  is  fat,  and  rather  stupid,  but 
most  good-natured.  Don  Uberto  is  Carlos's 
friend,  a  noble  young  captain,  much  admired 
formerly  in  Havana.  I  have  danced  with 
him,  my  cousin,  in  halls  of  rose-wreathed 
marble ;  we  meet  here  in  the  wilderness,  I 
with  my  shattered  affections,  he  with  his 
country's  name  written  on  his  soul.  It  is 
affecting ;  it  is  heart-stirring,  Marguerite ;  yet 
think  nothing  of  it;  romance  is  dead  for 
Margarita  Montfort.  Carlos  is  my  kind 
brother,  as  ever.  He  was  vexed  at  first  at 
my  coming  here.  Heavens !  what  was  I  to 
do?  My  stepmother  was  dragging  me  to  a 
convent ;  my  days  would  have  been  spent 
there,  and  in  a  short  time  my  life  would  have 
gone  out  like  a  flame.  ^^Out,  short  candle  !  " 
You  see  I  remember  your  Shakespeare  read- 
ings, my  dearest.  Can  I  forget  anything 
that  recalls  you  to  me,  half  of  my  heart  ?    If 


TO   MARGAKET.  83 

there  had  been  time,  indeed,  I  might  have 
written  to  my  uncle ;  I  might  even  have  come 
to  you ;  but  the  hour  descended  hke  a  thunder- 
bolt ;  I  fled,  Manuela  with  me.  The  manner 
of  my  flight?  you  will  ask.  Marguerite,  it 
was  managed  —  I  do  not  boast,  I  am  the  soul 
of  humility,  you  know  it !  —  the  manner  of 
it  was  perfect.  Listen,  and  you  shall  hear 
all.  You  remember  that  in  my  last  letter  — 
written,  alas !  in  my  beloved  garden,  which 
I  may  never  see  more  —  I  spoke  with  a  cer- 
tain restraint,  even  an  approach  to  mystery. 
It  was  thus.  At  first,  when  that  woman 
proposed  to  take  me  to  the  convent,  I  was 
a  creature  distracted.  The  fire  of  madness 
burned  in  my  veins,  and  I  could  think  of 
nothing  save  death  or  revenge.  But  with 
time  came  reflection ;  came  wisdom,  Mar- 
guerite, and  inflexible  resolve.  To  those  she 
loves,  Margarita  Montfort  is  wax,  silk,  down, 
anything  the  most  soft  and  yielding  that  can 
be    figured.      To    her    enemies,    steel    and 


84  KITA. 

adamant  are  her  composition.  I  had  two 
friends  in  that  house  of  Spaniards ;  one  was 
Pasquale,  good,  faithful  Pasquale,  an  under 
gardener  and  helper ;  the  other,  Manuela,  my 
maid.  I  have  described  her  to  you  —  enough  ! 
I  realised  that  action  must  be  of  swiftness, 
the  lightning  flash,  the  volcano  fire  that  I 
predicted.  Do  not  say  that  I  did  not  warn 
you.  Marguerite ;  knowing  me,  you  must  have 
expected  from  my  last  letter  what  must  come. 
I  called  Manuela  to  my  room,  I  made  pre- 
tence that  she  should  arrange  my  hair.  My 
hair  has  grown  three  inches.  Marguerite,  since 
I  left  you ;  it  now  veritably  touches  the  floor 
as  I  sit.  Our  holy  religion  tells  us  that  it  is 
a  woman's  crown,  yet  how  heavy  a  one  at 
times !  I  closed  the  door,  I  locked  it ;  I 
caused  to  draw  down  the  heavy  Persians. 
Then,  tiger-like,  I  sprang  upon  my  attendant, 
and  laid  my  hand  on  her  mouth.  "  Hush  !  " 
I  tell  her.  "  Not  a  word,  not  a  sound  !  dare 
but  breathe,  and  you  may  be  my  death.     My 


TO    MARGARET.  85 

life,  I  tell  you,  hangs  by  a  thread.  Hush !  be 
silent,  and  tell  me  all.  Tell  me  who  assists 
Geronimo  in  the  stables  since  Pablo  is  ill." 
Manuela  struggles,  she  releases  herself  to 
reply  — 

"  Pasquale ! " 

It  is  the  answer  from  heaven.  Pasquale,  I 
have  said,  is  my  one  friend  beside  Manuela. 
I  say  to  her,  "  Do  thus,  and  thus !  give  these 
orders  to  Pasquale ;  tell  him  that  it  imports  of 
your  life  and  mine,  saying  nothing  of  his  own  ; 
that  if  I  am  not  obeyed,  the  evil  eye  will  be 
the  least  of  his  punishments,  and  death  with- 
out the  sacraments  the  end  for  him." 

Manuela  hears ;  she  trembles ;  she  flies  to 
execute  my  commands.  Then,  Marguerite  — 
then,  what  does  the  daughter  of  Cuba  do  ?  She 
goes  to  the  wall,  to  the  trophy  I  have  described 
to  you  so  often.  She  selects  her  weapons.  Ah, 
if  you  could  see  them  !  First,  a  long  slender 
dagger,  the  steel  exquisitely  inlaid  with  gold, 
in  a  sheath  of  green  enamel;  a  dagger  for 


86  RITA. 

a  prince,  Marguerite,  for  your  Lancelot  or 
Tristram  !  Another,  short  and  keen,  the  blade 
plain  but  deadly,  cased  in  wrought  leather  of 
Cordova.  Last,  my  machete,  my  pearl  of 
destructiveness.  It  was  his,  my  Santayana's ; 
he  procured  it  from  Toledo,  from  the  master 
sword-maker  of  the  universe.  The  blade  is 
so  fine,  the  eye  refuses  to  tell  where  it  melts 
into  the  air;  a  touch,  and  the  hardest  sub- 
stance is  divided  exactly  in  two  pieces.  The 
handle,  gold,  set  with  an  ancestral  emerald, 
which  for  centuries  has  brought  victory  in 
the  field  to  the  arm  of  the  hero  who  wore  it ; 
the  sheath  —  I  forget  myself;  this  weapon 
has  no  sheath.  When  a  Santillo  de  Santayana 
rides  into  battle,  he  has  no  thought  to  sheathe 
his  sword.  These,  Marguerite,  are  my  arma- 
ment ;  these,  and  a  tiny  gold-mounted  revolver, 
a  gem,  a  toy,  but  a  toy  of  deadly  purpose. 
Enough!  I  lay  them  apart,  ready  for  the 
night.  I  go  to  my  stepmother,  I  smile,  I 
make  submission.     I  will  do  all  she  wishes; 


TO    MARGARET.  87 

I  am  a  child ;  her  age  impresses  me  with  the 
truth  that  I  should  not  set  my  will  against 
hers.  Concepcion  is  thirty  on  her  next  birth- 
day; she  tells  the  world  that  she  is  twenty, 
but  I  know!  it  grinds  her  bones  when  I 
remind  her  of  her  years,  as  they  were  revealed 
to  me  by  a  member  of  her  family.  So  !  She 
is  pleased,  we  embrace,  the  volantes  are  com- 
manded, all  goes  smoothly.  I  demand  per- 
mission to  take  my  parrot  to  the  convent ;  it 
is,  to  my  surprise,  accorded;  I  know  she 
thought  those  savage  sisters  would  kill  him 
the  first  time  he  uttered  his  noble  and  inspir- 
ing words. 

The  night  comes,  the  hour  of  the  depar- 
ture. To  accompany  us  goes  my  good  Don 
Miguel,  the  dear  old  man  of  whom  I  have 
told  you,  whom  I  revere  as  my  grandfather. 
My  heart  yearns  to  tell  him  all,  to  cast  my- 
self on  his  venerable  bosom  and  cry,  ''  Come 
with  me  ;  take  me  yourself  to  my  brother ; 
share  with  us  the  perils  and  glories  of   the 


88  KITA. 

tented  field  !  "  But  no  !  he  is  old,  this  dear 
friend ;  his  hair  is  the  snow,  his  step  is  feeble. 
Hardships  such  as  Rita  must  now  endure 
would  end  his  feeble  life.  I  speak  no  word ; 
a  marble  smile  is  all  I  wear,  though  my  heart 
is  rent  with  anguish.  The  carriages  are  at 
the  door.  Concepcion  would  have  me  ride 
in  the  first,  that  she  may  have  her  eyes  on 
me  at  each  instant.  She  suspects  noth- 
ing, no ;  it  is  merely  the  base  and  suspicious 
nature  which  reveals  itself  at  every  occa- 
sion. I  refuse,  I  prodigate  expressions  of  my 
humility,  of  my  determination  to  take  the 
second  place,  leaving  the  first  to  her ;  briefly, 
I  take  the  second  volante,  Manuela  springing 
to  my  side.  After  some  discontent,  appeased 
by  dear  Don  Miguel,  who  is  veritably  an 
angel,  and  wants  but  death  to  transport  him 
among  the  saints,  Concepcion  mounts  in  the 
first  volante.  I  have  seen  that  Pasquale  is 
on  the  box  of  mine ;  I  possess  my  soul,  I  lean 
back  and   count  the   beats    of   my  fevered 


TO   MAKGARET.  89 

pulse,  as  we  ascend  the  steep  road,  winding 
among  hills  and  forests.  The  convent  is  at 
the  top  of  a  long,  long  hill,  very  steep  and 
rugged ;  the  horses  pant  and  strain  ;  human- 
ity demands  that  they  slacken  their  pace, 
that  the  carriages  are  slowly,  slowly,  drawn 
up  the  rugged  track.  The  night  descends,  I 
have  told  you,  swiftly  in  our  southern  cli- 
mate ;  already  it  is  dark.  On  either  side  of 
the  road  are  tall  shrouded  forms,  which 
Manuela  takes  for  sentinels,  for  Spanish  sol- 
diers drawn  up  to  watch,  perhaps  to  arrest  us. 
I  laugh;  I  see  they  are  the  aloes  only, 
planted  here  in  rows  along  the  road.  Pres- 
ently, at  a  turn  of  the  road,  a  light!  a  fire 
burning  by  the  roadside,  and  soldiers  run- 
ning, real  ones  this  time,  to  the  horses' 
heads.  "Alerta  !  quien  va  ?  "  It  is  the  Span- 
ish challenge.  Marguerite ;  it  is  a  piquette  of 
the  Gringos,  of  the  hated  Spaniards.  They 
peer  into  the  carriages,  faces  of  savages,  of 
brutes,  devils  j  I  feel  their  glances  like  poi- 


90  RITA. 

soned  arrows.  They  demand,  Don  Miguel 
makes  answer,  shows  his  papers.  Of  the  in- 
stant these  slaves  are  cringing,  are  bowing  to 
the  earth.  "  Pass,  most  honourable  and  illus- 
trious Senor  Don  Miguel  Pietoso,  with  the 
heavenly  ladies  under  your  charge ! ''  It  is 
over.  The  volantes  roll  on.  I  clasp  Manu- 
ela  in  my  arms  and  whisper,  "  We  are  free  !  " 
We  mingle  our  tears  of  rapture,  but  for  a 
moment  only.  We  approach  the  steepest 
pitch  of  the  long  hill  (it  is  veritably  a  moun- 
tain), a  place  beyond  conception  rugged  and 
difficult.  The  horses  strain  and  tug ;  they 
are  at  point  of  exhaustion.  I  look  at  Pas- 
quale ;  Pasquale  has  served  me  since  my 
cradle.  Does  his  head  move,  a  very  little, 
the  least  imaginable  motion  ?  It  is  too  dark 
to  see  ;  the  moon  is  not  yet  risen.  But  I  feel 
the  horses  checked,  I  feel  the  carriage  pause, 
an  instant,  a  breath  only.  I  step  noiselessly 
to  the  ground;  the  volante  is  low,  permit- 
ting this  without  danger.     Manuela  follows. 


TO   MARGARET.  91 

There  is  not  a  sound^  not  a  creak,  not  the 
rustle  of  a  fold.  Again  it  is  over.  The  vo- 
lante  rolls  on.  Manuela  and  I  are  alone, 
are  free  in  the  mountains  of  Cuba  Libre. 

I  have  but  one  thought :  my  country,  my 
brother !  Behold  me  here,  in  the  society  of 
one,  prepared  to  shed  my  blood  for  the  other. 
You  would  never  guess  who  else  is  with  us ; 
Chiquito,  our  poor  old  friend  the  parrot,  the 
sacred  legacy  of  that  white  saint,  our  de- 
parted aunt.  Could  I  leave  him  behind,  to 
unfriendly,  perhaps  murderous,  hands?  Old 
Julio  is  a  Spaniard  at  heart ;  Chiquito  is  a 
Cuban  bird  ;  his  very  soul  —  do  you  doubt 
that  a  bird  has  a  soul,  when  I  tell  you  that 
I  have  seen  it  in  his  eyes.  Marguerite  ?  —  his 
very  soul  speaks  for  his  country.  If  you 
could  hear  him  cry, ''  Viva  Cuba  Libre  !  "  The 
camp  is  on  fire  when  they  hear  him.  Ah, 
they  are  such  brave  fellows,  our  soldiers ! 
poor,  in  rags,  half -fed  —  it  matters  not !  each 
one  is  a  hero,  and  all  are  my  brothers.     Mar- 


92  RITA. 

guerite^  sleep  hangs  at  last  upon  me.  Good- 
night, beloved ;  good-night,  cool  white  soul  of 
ivory  and  silver.  I  love  thee  always  devo- 
tedly. Have  no  fear  for  me.  It  is  true  that 
the  Spaniards  are  all  about  us  in  these  moun- 
tains, that  at  any  moment  we  may  be  at- 
tacked. What  of  that  ?  If  the  daughter  of 
Cuba  dies  by  her  brother's  side,  in  her  coun- 
try's cause,  my  Marguerite  will  know  that  it 
is  well  with  her.  You  will  shed  a  tear  over 
the  lonely  grave  among  the  Cuban  hills ;  but 
you  will  plant  a  wreath  for  Eita,  a  wreath 
of  mingled  laurel  and  immortelle,  and  it  will 
bloom  eternally. 

Ever,  and  with  a  thousand  greetings  to  my 
honoured  and  admired  uncle,  your 

Margarita  de  Sais^  Real  Montfort. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

m   THE    NIGHT. 

Rita  drew  a  long  breath  as  she  folded 
her  letter.  She  was  in  a  fine  glow  of  mingled 
affection  and  patriotic  fervour ;  it  had  been  a 
great  relief  to  pour  it  all  out  in  Margaret's 
sympathetic  ear^  though  that  ear  were  a 
thousand  miles  away.  Now  she  really  must 
go  to  bed.  It  was  one  o'clock,  her  watch 
told  her.  It  seemed  wicked,  profane,  to 
sleep  under  such  moonlight  as  this ;  but  still, 
the  body  must  be  preserved. 

^^But  first,"  she  said  to  herself,  "1  must 
have  a  drop  of  water  ;  writing  so  long  has 
made  me  thirsty." 

She  took  up  the  earthen  water-jar,  but 
found  it  empty.  Pepe  had  for  once  been 
faithless ;  indeed,  neither  he  nor  Manuela  had 

93 


94  KIT  A. 

escaped  the  witchery  of  the  full  moon,  and 
she  had  had  little  good  of  them  that  whole 
evening.  She  glanced  at  the  corner  where 
Manuela  lay ;  the  light,  regular  breathing 
told  that  the  girl  was  sound  asleep.  It 
would  be  a  pity  to  wake  her  from  her  first 
sweet  sleep,  poor  Manuela.  A  year,  perhaps 
a  month  ago,  Kita  would  not  have  hesitated 
an  instant ;  but  now  she  murmured,  "  Sleep, 
little  one  !     I  myself  will  fetch  the  water." 

She  stepped  out  into  the  moonlight,  with 
the  jar  in  her  hand.  All  was  still  as  sleep 
itself.  No  sound  or  motion  from  huts  or 
tent.  Under  the  palms  lay  a  number  of 
brown  bundles,  motionless.  Dry  leaves,  piled 
together  for  burning?  no!  soldiers  of  Cuba, 
wrapped  in  such  covering  as  they  could  find, 
taking  their  rest.  Alone,  beside  a  little  heap 
of  twigs  that  still  smouldered,  the  sentry  sat ; 
his  back  was  turned  to  her.  Should  she 
speak  to  him,  and  ask  him  to  go  to  the 
spring  for  her?    No;  how  much  more  interest- 


m   THE    NIGHT.  95 

ing  to  go  herself !  Everything  looked  so  dif- 
ferent in  this  magic  light;  it  was  a  whole 
new  world,  the  moon's  fairyland ;  who  knew 
what  wonderful  sights  might  meet  her  eyes  ? 
Besides,  her  old  nurse  used  to  say  that  water 
drawn  from  a  pure  spring  under  the  full 
moon  produced  a  matchless  purity  of  the 
complexion.  Her  complexion  was  well 
enough,  perhaps,  but  still  —  and  anyhow, 
it  would  be  an  adventure,  however  small  a 
one. 

The  girl's  feet,  in  their  soft  leather  slippers, 
made  no  sound  on  the  bare  earth.  The  sentry 
did  not  turn  his  head.  Silent  as  a  cloud,  she 
stole  across  the  little  glade,  and  passed  under 
the  trees  at  the  farther  end.  Here  the 
ground  broke  off  suddenly  in  a  rocky  pitch, 
down  which  one  scrambled  to  another  valley 
or  glen  lying  some  hundred  feet  lower;  the 
cliff  (for  it  was  steep  enough  to  merit  that 
name)  was  mostly  bare  rock,  but  here  and 
there  a  little  earth  had  caught  and  lodged, 


96  RITA. 

and  a  few  seeds  had  dropped,  and  a  tuft  of 
grass  or  a  little  tree  had  sprung  up,  defying 
the  gulf  below.  A  few  feet  only  from  the 
upper  level,  just  below  a  group  of  palms  that 
nodded  over  the  brink,  the  stream  gushed 
out  from  the  face  of  the  rock,  clear  and  cold. 
The  soldiers  had  hollowed  a  little  trough  to 
receive  the  trickling  stream,  and  one  .had 
only  to  hold  one's  pitcher  under  this  spout 
for  a  few  minutes,  to  have  it  filled  with  deli- 
cious water.  Rita  had  often  come  hither  in 
the  daytime,  during  the  week  that  had  now 
passed  since  her  arrival  at  the  mountain 
camp.  It  was  a  wild  and  picturesque  scene 
at  any  time,  but  now  the  effect  of  the  intense 
white  light,  falling  on  splintered  rock,  hang- 
ing tree,  and  glancing  stream  was  magical  in- 
deed. Rita  lay  down  on  her  face  at  the  edge 
of  the  precipice,  as  she  had  seen  the  soldiers 
do,  and  lowered  her  jar  carefully.  As  the 
water  gurgled  placidly  into  the  jar,  her  eyes 
roved  here  and  there,  taking  in  every  detail  of 


m   THE   NIGHT.  97 

the  marvellous  scene  before  her.  Never,  she 
thought,  had  she  seen  anything  so  beautiful, 
so  unearthly  in  its  loveliness.  Peace  !  silver 
peace,  and  silence,  the  silence  of  —  hark  ! 
what  was  that  ? 

A  crack,  as  of  a  twig  breaking ;  a  rustling, 
far  below  in  the  gorge ;  a  shuJBtling  sound,  as 
of  soft  shod  feet  pressing  the  soft  earth. 
Rita  crouched  flat  to  the  ground,  and,  leaning 
over  as  far  as  she  dared,  peered  over  the 
precipice.  The  bottom  of  the  gorge  was 
filled  with  a  mass  of  tall  grasses  and  feath- 
ery blossoming  shrubs,  with  here  and  there  a 
tree  rising  tall  and  straight.  The  leaves 
were  black  as  jet  in  the  strong  light.  Gazing 
intently,  she  saw  the  branches  tremble,  wave, 
separate ;  and  against  the  dark  leaves  shone 
a  gleam  of  metal,  that  moved,  and  came 
nearer.  Another  and  yet  another;  and  now 
she  could  see  the  dark  faces,  and  the  moon 
shone  on  the  barrels  of  the  carbines,  and  made 
them  glitter  like  silver. 


98  RITA. 

Swiftly  and  noiselessly  the  girl  drew  back 
from  the  brink,  crouching  in  the  grass  till 
she  reached  the  shadow  of  the  grove.  Then 
she  rose  to  her  feet,  still  holding  her  jar  of 
water  carefully,  —  for  there  was  no  need  of 
wasting  that,  —  and  ran  for  her  life. 

A  whispered  word  to  the  sentry,  who 
sprang  quickly  enough  from  his  reverie,  be- 
side the  fire ;  then  to  the  General's  tent,  then 
to  Carlos,  with  the  same  whispered  message. 
"  The  Gringos  are  here !  Wake,  for  the  love 
of  Heaven ! " 

In  another  moment  the  little  glade  was 
alive  with  dusky  figures,  springing  from 
their  beds  of  moss  and  leaves,  snatching 
their  arms,  fumbling  for  cartridges.  The 
General  was  already  among  them.  Carlos 
and  the  other  officers  came  running,  buckling 
their  sword-belts,  rubbing  their  eyes. 

"  Where  are  they  ? ''  all  were  asking  in 
excited  whispers.  "  Who  saw  them  ?  Is  it 
another  nightmare  of  Pepe's  ?  " 


IN    THE    NIGHT.  99 

^^No!  no! ''  murmured  Rita.  "I  saw  them, 
I  tell  you !  I  saw  their  faces  in  the  moon- 
light. I  went  to  get  some  water.  They  are 
climbing  up  the  cliff.  I  did  not  stop  to  count, 
but  there  must  be  many  of  them,  from  the 
sound  of  their  feet.  Oh,  make  haste,  make 
haste ! " 

The  General  gave  his  orders  in  a  low,  em- 
phatic tone.  Twenty  men,  with  Carlos  at 
their  head,  glided  like  shadows  across  the 
glade,  and  disappeared  among  the  trees. 
Rita's  breath  came  quick,  and  she  prepared  to 
follow ;  but  the  old  General  laid  a  kind  hand 
on  her  arm.  "  No,  my  child ! "  he  said. 
''  You  have  done  your  country  a  great  service 
this  night.  Do  not  imperil  your  life  need- 
lessly. Go  rather  to  your  room,  and  pray  for 
your  brother  and  for  us  all." 

But  prayer  was  far  from  Rita's  thoughts  at 
that  moment.  ''  Dear  General,"  she  implored, 
with  clasped  hands,  the  tears  starting  to  her 
eyes,  "  Let  me  go !   let  me   go !     I   implore 


100  KITA. 

you!  I  will  pray  afterward,  I  truly  will.  I 
will  pray  while  I  am  fighting,  if  you  will 
only  let  me  go.  See !  I  have  come  all  this 
way  to  fight  for  my  country  ;  and  must  I 
stay  away  from  the  first  battle  ?  Look,  dear 
Senor  General !  Look  at  my  machete  !  Isn't 
it  beautiful  ?  it  is  the  sword  of  a  hero ;  I  must 
use  it  for  him.  Let  me  go  !  "  The  beautiful 
face,  upturned  in  the  moonlight,  the  dark  eyes 
shining  through  their  tears,  might  have  soft- 
ened a  harder  heart  than  that  of  General 
Sevillo.  He  opened  his  lips  to  reply,  his 
fatherly  hand  still  on  her  arm,  when  sud- 
denly a  sharp  report  was  heard.  A  single 
shot,  then  a  volley,  the  shots  rattling  out, 
struck  back  and  forth  from  cliff  to  cliff,  mul- 
tiplying in  hideous  echoes.  Then  broke  out 
cries  and  groans ;  the  crash  of  heavy  bod- 
ies falling  back  among  the  trees  below,  and 
shouts  of  "  Viva  Cuba  ;  "  and  still  the  shots 
rang  out,  and  still  the  echoes  cracked  and 
snapped.     Rita   turned    pale   as   death,   and 


IN    THE    NIGHT.  101 

clasped  her  hands  on  her  bosom.  ''  Ah ! 
Dios!''  she  cried.  ''I  had  forgotten;  there 
will  be  blood !  "  and  rushing  into  her  hut,  she 
flung  herself  face  downward  on  her  leafy  bed. 

The  perplexed  General  looked  after  her  for 
a  moment,  pulling  his  grizzled  moustache. 
''  Caramba  !  "  he  muttered.  "  To  understand 
these  feminines  ?  Decidedly,  this  charming 
child  must  be  sent  into  safety  to-morrow." 
And  shaking  his  head  anci  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  he  strode  in  the  direction  of  the 
firing. 

Ten  minutes'  sharp  fighting,  and  the  skir- 
mish was  over.  The  Spanish  "  guerilla  "  was 
scattered,  many  of  the  guerilleros  lying  dead 
or  wounded  at  the  foot  of  the  precipice,  the 
others  scrambling  and  tumbling  down  as  best 
they  might.  Carlos  and  his  men  had  so 
greatly  the  advantage  in  position,  if  not  in 
numbers,  that  not  a  single  Cuban  was  killed, 
though  two  or  three  were  more  or  less  seri- 
ously wounded.     Among  these  was  the  un- 


102  RITA. 

fortunate  Pedro  Valdez,  who  had  only  that 
evening  returned  to  camp,  having  left  his 
child  and  his  old  mother  in  a  place  of  safety. 
His  wife  had  been  allowed  to  remain  for 
a  short  time  in  camp,  at  the  request  of  the 
surgeon,  as  she  had  had  some  experience  in 
nursing.  Now  he  was  shot  in  the  arm,  and 
his  comrades  lifted  him  gently,  and  carried 
him  back.  His  wife  was  waiting  for  him. 
She  seemed  to  have  expected  something  of 
the  kind,  for  she  made  no  outcry;  she  fol- 
lowed quietly  to  the  clump  of  trees  distant 
a  little  way  from  the  rest  of  the  camp,  where 
good  Doctor  Ferrando  had  the  solitary  rancho, 
the  case  of  surgical  instruments  and  the  few 
rolls  of  bandages  that  constituted  his  field 
hospital.  A  rough  table  had  been  knocked 
together  for  operations ;  otherwise  the  sick 
and  wounded  fared  much  as  the  rest  did, 
sleeping  on  beds  of  leaves  and  dry  grass,  and 
fighting  the  mosquitoes  as  best  they  might. 
Here  the  bearers  laid  Pedro  down,  and  Dolores 


IN    THE   NIGHT.  103 

took  her  place  quietly  at  his  side,  fanning 
away  the  insects  that  hovered  in  clouds  about 
the  wounded  man,  holding  the  poor  arm  while 
the  doctor  dressed  it,  and  behaving  as  if  her 
life  had  been  spent  in  a  hospital. 

Doctor  Ferrando  spoke  a  few  words  of  ap- 
proval, but  the  woman  heeded  them  little ;  it 
was  a  matter  of  course  that  where  there  was 
suffering,  she  should  be  at  work.  So,  when 
Pedro  presently  dropped  off  to  sleep,  she 
moved  softly  about  among  the  wounded  men, 
smoothing  a  blanket  here,  changing  a  ligature 
there,  doing  all  with  light,  swift  fingers  whose 
touch  healed  instead  of  hurting. 

She  was  sitting  beside  a  lad,  the  last  to  be 
brought  in  from  the  scene  of  the  skirmish, 
when  the  screen  of  bushes  by  the  rancho 
was  parted,  and  Kita  appeared.  Slowly  and 
timidly  she  drew  near;  her  face  was  like 
marble;  her  eyes  looked  unnaturally  large 
and  dark.  Dolores  made  a  motion  to  rise, 
but  a  gesture  bade  her  keep  her  place. 


104  RITA. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  the  young  girl.  '^  Sit  still, 
Dolores  !  I  have  come  —  to  —  to  learn  ! '' 

"  To  learn,  senorita  ?  "  repeated  the  woman, 
humbly.  The  senorita  was  in  her  grateful 
eyes  a  heaven-descended  being,  whose  every 
look  and  word  must  be  law ;  this  new  bearing 
amazed  and  puzzled  her. 

"  What  can  this  poor  soul  teach  the  noble 
and  high-born  lady?"  she  asked,  sadly.  "1 
know  nothing,  not  even  to  read ;  I  am  a  poor 
woman  merely.  The  senor  doctor  is  this 
moment  gone  to  take  his  distinguished  siesta ; 
do  I  call  him  for  the  senorita  ? '' 

Rita  shook  her  head,  and  crept  nearer, 
gazing  with  wide  eyes  of  fear  at  the  prostrate 
form  beside  which  Dolores  was  sitting. 

^^See,  Dolores!"  she  said;  and  her  tone 
was  as  humble  as  the  woman's  own.  "  I 
must  learn  —  to  take  care  of  him — of  them  !  " 
She  nodded  at  the  sufferer.  "  All  my  life, 
you  see,  I  could  never  bear  the  sight  of  blood. 
To  cut  my  finger,  I  fainted  at  the  instant. 


•  HUSH  !  '    SAID    THE    YOUNG    GIRL.       '  SIT    STILL.'  " 


IN    THE    NIGHT.  105 

A^lways  they  said,  '  Poor  child !  it  is  her 
delicacy,  her  sensibility ; '  they  praised  me ; 
I  thought  it  a  fine  thing,  to  faint,  to  turn 
pale  at  the  word  even.  Now  —  oh,  Dolores,  do 
you  see?  I  desire  to  help  my  country,  my 
brother,  all  the  heroes  who  are  risking  their  life, 
are  shedding  their  —  their  blood  —  for  Cuba. 
I  think  I  can  fight ;  I  forget ;  I  see  only  the 
bright  shining  blades,  the  victorious  banners ;  I 
forget  that  these  heroes  must  bleed,  that  this 
horrible  blood  must  flow  in  streams,  in  tor- 
rents, that  oceans  of  it  must  overwhelm  us, 
the  defenders  of  my  country.  Ay  de  mi !  I 
begged  the  General  even  now  to  let  me  fight, 
to  let  me  stand  beside  my  Carlos,  and  wield 
my  beautiful  machete.  Suddenly,  Dolores  — 
I  heard  the  shots ;  I  heard  —  terrible  sounds ! 
screams  —  oh,  Dios  !  —  screams  of  men,  per- 
haps of  my  own  brother,  in  anguish.  All  at 
once  it  came  over  me  —  I  cannot  tell  you  — 
I  saw  it  all,  the  blood,  the  wounds,  the  horror 
to  death.     I  awoke  from  my  dreams  j  I  was 


106  RITA. 

a  child,  do  you  see,  Dolores  ?  I  was  a  child, 
playing  at  war,  and  thinking  —  thinking  the 
thoughts  of  a  silly,  silly  child.  Now  I  am 
awake ;  now  I  know  —  what  —  what  war 
means.  So  —  I  am  foolish,  but  I  can  learn ; 
I  think  I  can  learn.  You  are  a  brave  woman  ; 
I  have  been  watching  you  through  the  leaves 
for  half  an  hour.  I  saw  you  —  I  saw  you 
change  those  cloths;  those  terrible  bloody 
cloths  on  that  poor  man's  head.  At  first  my 
eyes  turned  round,  I  saw  black  only ;  but  I 
opened  them  again,  I  fixed  them  on  what  you 
held,  I  watched.  Now  I  can  bear  quite  well 
to  look  at  it.  Help  me,  Dolores  !  teach  me  — 
to  help  as  you  help;  teach  me  to  care  for 
these  brothers,  as  you  do." 

Dolores  looked  earnestly  in  the  beautiful 
young  face.  In  spite  of  the  deadly  pallor,  she 
saw  that  the  girl  was  fully  herself,  was  calm 
and  determined.  With  a  simple,  noble  ges- 
ture she  lifted  Rita's  slender  hand  to  her  lips, 
saying  merely  :  "  This  hand  shall  bring  bless- 


IN    THE    NIGHT.  107 

ing  to  many !  come,  my  seiiorita,  and  see  ! 
it  is  so  easy,  when  once  one  knows  the  way 
of  it." 

Very  gently  the  poor  peasant's  wife  showed 
the  rich  man's  daughter  the  A  B  C  of  woman's 
work  among  the  sick  and  suffering.  At  first 
Rita  could  do  little  more  than  control  her 
own  nerves,  and  fight  down  the  faintness  that 
came  creeping  over  her  at  sight  of  the  band- 
aged faces,  ghastly  under  the  brown,  of  the 
torn  flesh  and  nerveless  limbs.  Gradually, 
however,  she  began  to  gain  strength.  The 
rough  brown  hand  moved  so  easily,  so  lightly ; 
it  laid  hold  of  those  terrible  bandages  as  if 
they  were  mere  ordinary  bits  of  linen.  Surely 
now,  she,  Rita,  could  do  that  too.  As  Dolores 
took  a  cloth  from  her  husband's  head,  the 
girl's  hand  was  outstretched,  took  it  quietly, 
and  handed  a  fresh  one  to  the  nurse.  The 
cloth  she  took  was  covered  with  red  stains. 
For  a  moment  Rita's  head  swam,  and  the 
world  seemed  to  turn  dark  before  her  eyes ; 


108  RITA. 

but  she  held  the  thing  firmly^  till  her  sight 
cleared  again;  then  dropped  it  in  the  tub  of 
water  that  stood  ready,  and  taking  up  the 
fan  of  green  palm-leaf,  swept  it  steadily  to 
and  fro,  driving  the  clouds  of  flies  and  mos- 
quitoes away  from  the  sufferer. 

Coming  back  from  his  siesta  half  an  hour 
later,  good  Doctor  Ferrando  paused  a  moment 
at  the  entrance  of  the  hospital  grove.  There 
were  two  nurses  now;  the  good  man  gazed  in 
astonishment  at  the  slender  figure  kneeling 
beside  one  of  the  rough  cots,  fanning  the 
wounded  man,  and  singing  in  a  low,  sweet 
voice,  a  song  of  Cuba.  Several  of  the  men 
were  awake,  and  gazing  at  her  with  delight. 
Dolores,  with  a  look  of  quiet  happiness  on 
her  face,  sat  beside  the  bed  where  her  hus- 
band was  sleeping  peacefully.  "  Come  !  " 
said  the  doctor,  "  war,  after  all,  has  its  beauty 
as  well  as  its  terror.  Observe  this  heavenly 
sight,  you  benevolent  saints!"  he  waved  his 
cigar  upward,  inviting  the   attention  of   all 


IN   THE   NIGHT.  109 

attendant  spirits.  "  Consider  this  lovely  child, 
awakened  to  the  holiness  of  womanhood ! 
and  the  General  will  destroy  all  this  to- 
morrow, from  respect  for  worldly  conven- 
tions! He  is  without  doubt  right;  yet,  what 
a  pity!'' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

CAMP    SCENE. 

"  If  I  must^  dear  Seiior  General  —  I  will  be 
good,  I  will,  indeed ;  but  my  heart  will  break 
to  leave  Carlos/ and  the  camp,  and  you,  Seiior 
General." 

^^My  dear  child,  —  my  dear  young  lady, 
what  pleasure  for  me  to  keep  you  here !  the 
first  sunshine  of  the  war,  it  came  with  you, 
Senorita  Margarita.  Nevertheless,  duty  is 
duty ;  I  should  be  wanting  in  mine,  most  wo- 
fully  and  wickedly  wanting,  if  I  allowed  you 
to  remain  here,  in  hourly  danger,  when  a  few 
hours  could  place  you  in  comparative  safety. 
Perfect  safety,  I  do  not  promise.  Where 
shall  we  find  it,  even  for  our  nearest  and 
dearest,  in  this  poor  distracted  country  ?  But 
with  Don  Annunzio  and  his  family  you  will 


CAMP   SCENE.  Ill 

be  safe  at  least  for  a  time ;  whereas  here  —  " 
The  General  looked  around,  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  spreading  his  hands  out  with 
a  dramatic  gesture.  "  The  Gringos  have 
learned  the  way  to  our  mountain  camp ;  they 
will  not  forget  it.  Another  attack  may  come 
any  night ;  our  camp  is  an  outpost,  placed  of 
purpose  to  guard  this  position,  which  must 
of  necessity  be  one  of  danger.  To  have  women 
with  us  —  it  is  not  only  exposing  them  to  the 
terrible  possibilities  of  war,  but  —  " 

He  paused.  "  I  see  !  "  cried  Rita.  "  I  see  ! 
you  are  too  kind  to  say  it,  but  we  are  a 
burden  upon  you.  We  make  harder  the 
work ;  we  are  an  encumbrance.  Dear  Senor 
General,  I  go  !  I  fly  !  Give  me  half,  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  and  I  am  gone.  Never,  never, 
will  I  be  in  the  way  of  my  country's  de- 
fenders ;  never  !  Too  long  we  have  stayed 
already ;  Manuela  shall  make  on  the  instant 
our  packets,  and  in  a  little  hour  you  shall 
forget  that  we  were  here  at  all." 


112  RITA. 

The  good  General  cried  out,  "  No !  no !  my 
dear  child,  my  dear  senorita;  cease  these 
words,  I  implore  you.  You  cut  me  to  the 
heart.  Consider  the  help  that  you  have 
brought  to  us )  consider  the  nursing,  the  ten- 
der care  that  you  and  the  wife  of  Valdez  have 
given  to  our  sufferers,  in  the  rancho  there. 
Never  will  this  be  forgotten,  rest  assured 
of  that.  But  —  it  is  true  that  you  must  go; 
yet  not  too  soon.  This  evening,  when  the 
coolness  falls,  Don  Carlos,  with  a  chosen 
escort,  will  conduct  you  to  the  residence  of 
Don  Annunzio.  There,  I  rejoice  to  think 
that  you  will  find,  not  luxury,  but  at  least 
some  few  of  the  comforts  of  ordinary  life. 
Here  you  have  suffered ;  your  lofty  spirit 
will  not  confess  it,  but  you  have  —  you  must 
have  suffered,  delicate  and  fragile  as  you  are, 
in  the  rough  life  of  a  Cuban  camp.  Enough ! 
The  day  is  before  you,  dearest  senorita.  I 
pray  you,  while  it  lasts,  make  use  of  me,  of 
all  that  the  camp  contains,  in  whatever  way 


CAMP    SCENE.  113 

you  can  imagine.  I  would  make  the  day  a 
pleasant  one,  if  I  might.  Command  me,  dear 
senorita,  in  anything  and  everything.  The 
camp  is  yours,  with  all  it  contains." 

He  bowed  with  courtly  grace,  and  Eita 
courtsied  and  then  turned  quickly  away,  to 
hide  the  tears  that  would  come  in  spite  of 
her.  It  was  a  keen  disappointment.  When 
Carlos  told  her  that  morning  tha^t  she  must 
leave  the  camp,  she  had  refused  pointblank. 
A  stormy  scene  followed,  in  which  the  old 
Rita  was  only  too  much  in  evidence.  She 
raged,  she  wept,  she  stamped  her  little  foot. 
She  was  a  Cuban,  as  much  as  he  was ;  she 
was  a  nurse,  a  daughter  of  the  army ;  no 
human  power  should  drive  her  from  the 
ground  where  she  was  prepared  to  shed  her 
last  drop  of  blood  for  the  defenders  of  her 
country.  Now  —  a  few  kind,  grave  words 
from  a  gray-haired  man,  and  all  was  changed. 
She  was  not  a  necessity,  she  was  a  hindrance ; 
she  saw  that  this  must  be  so ;  the  pain  was 


114  EITA. 

sharp,  but  she  would  not  show  it ;  she  would 
never  again  lose  her  self-control,  never.  Car- 
los should  see  that  she  was  no  longer  a  child. 
He  had  called  her  a  child,  not  half  an  hour 
ago,  a  naughty  child,  who  was  making  trouble 
for  everybody.  Well  —  Rita  stood  still;  the 
thought  came  over  her  suddenly,  — it  was  true ! 
she  had  been  childish,  had  been  naughty. 
Suppose  Margaret  or  Peggy  should  behave 
so,  stamping  and  storming;  how  would  it 
seem?  Oh,  well,  that  was  different.  Their 
blood  was  cool,  almost  cold.  It  flowed  slug- 
gishly in  their  veins.  She  was  a  child  of 
the  South ;  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  she 
should  be  like  Margaret.  Yes!  but  —  the 
thought  would  come,  troubling  all  her  mind ; 
suppose  Margaret  were  here,  with  her  calm 
sense,  her  cheerful  face,  and  tranquil  voice ; 
would  not  she  be  of  more  use,  of  more  help, 
than  a  girl  who  could  not  help  screaming 
when  she  was  in  a  passion? 

These  thoughts  were  new  to  Rita  Montfort. 


CAMP    SCENE.  115 

Full  of  them,  she  walked  slowly  to  her  hut, 
with  bent  head,  and  eyes  full  of  unshed  tears. 
Meanwhile,  the  good  General  went  back  to 
his  tent,  where  Carlos  awaited  him  with  some 
anxiety. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  as  the  gray  head  bent 
under  the  tent-flaps. 

"Well,"  responded  his  commander.  "It 
is  very  well,  my  son.  The  senorita  —  she  is 
adorable,  do  you  know  it  ?  Never  have  I  seen 
a  more  lovely  young  person !  The  senorita 
is  most  reasonable.  She  comprehends;  she 
understands  the  desolation  that  it  is  to  me 
to  send  away  so  delightful  a  visitor;  nev- 
ertheless—  she  accepts  all,  with  her  own 
exquisite  grace." 

Carlos  shrugged  his  shoulders;  that  same 
exquisite  grace  had  flashed  a  dagger  in  his 
eyes  not  ten  minutes  before,  vowing  that 
it  should  be  sheathed  in  the  owner's  heart 
before  she  left  the  camp;  but  it  was  not 
necessary  to  say  this  to  the  General.     Carlos 


116  RITA. 

was  an  affectionate  brother,  and  was  honestly 
relieved  and  glad  to  find  that  Rita  had  come 
to  her  senses.  He  thanked  General  Sevillo 
warmly  for  his  good  offices,  and,  being  off 
duty,  went  in  search  of  his  sister,  determining 
that  he  would  make  her  last  day  in  camp  a 
pleasant  one,  so  far  as  lay  in  his  power.  He 
found  Rita  sitting  sadly  in  the  door  of  her 
hut,  watching  Manuela,  who  was  packing 
up  their  belongings,  unwillingly  enough. 
Manuela  had  enjoyed  her  stay  in  camp 
greatly,  and  thought  life  would  be  very  dull, 
in  comparison,  at  Don  Annunzio's  cottage; 
but  there  was  no  escape,  and  the  white  silk 
blouse  and  the  swansdown  wrapper  went  into 
the  bag  with  all  the  other  fineries. 

"  Come,  Rita,"  said  Carlos,  taking  his  sis- 
ter's hand  affectionately;  ^^come  with  me, 
and  let  me  show  you  some  things  that  you 
have  not  yet  seen.  You  must  not  forget  the 
camp.  Who  knows  ?  Some  day  you  may 
come  back  to  pay  us  a  visit." 


CAMP   SCENE.  117 

Rita  shook  her  head,  and  the  tears  came  to 
her  eyes  again;  but  she  drove  them  back 
bravely,  and  smiled,  and  laid  her  hand  in  her 
brother's  ;  and  they  passed  out  together 
among  the  palm-trees. 

Manuela  looked  after  them,  and  laid  her 
hand  on  her  heart ;  it  was  a  gesture  that  she 
had  often  seen  her  mistress  use,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  infinitely  touching  and  beauti- 
ful. "  OMme^'  sighed  Manuela.  "  War  is  ter- 
rible, indeed !  To  think  that  we  must  go 
away,  just  when  we  are  so  comfortable.  But 
where,  then,  is  this  idiot  ?  Pepe !  When  I 
call  you,  will  you  come,  animal  ?     Pepe  ! " 

The  thicket  near  the  rancho  rustled  and 
shook,  and  Pepe  appeared.  This  young  man 
presented  a  different  figure  from  the  forlorn 
one  that  had  greeted  the  two  girls  on  their 
first  arrival  at  the  camp.  His  curly  hair  was 
now  carefully  brushed  and  oiled.  The  scar- 
let handkerchief  was  still  tied  about  his 
head,  but  it  was  tied  now  with  a  grace  that 


118  RITA. 

might  have  done  credit  to  the  most  dandified 
matador  in  the  Havana  ring.  His  jacket  was 
neatly  mended ;  altogether,  Pepe  was  once 
more  a  self-respecting,  even  a  self-admir- 
ing youth.  Also,  he  admired  Manuela  im- 
mensely, and  lost  no  opportunity  of  telling 
that  she  was  the  light  of  his  eyes  and 
the  flower  of  his  soul.  He  was  now  begin- 
ning some  remarks  of  this  description,  but 
Manuela  interrupted  him,  laying  her  pretty 
brown  hand  unceremoniously  on  his  lips. 

^^For  once,  Pepe,  endeavour  to  possess  a 
small  portion  of  sense,"  she  said.  ^^  Listen 
to  me  !     We  must  leave  the  camp." 

"  How  then,  marrow  of  my  bones !  Leave 
the  camp  ?     You  and  I  ?  " 

"  I  am  speaking  to  a  monkey,  then,  instead 
of  a  man  ?  The  use,  I  ask  you,  of  addressing 
intelligent  remarks  to  such  a  corporosity? 
My  mistress  and  I,  simpleton.  This  General 
of  yours  drives  us  from  his  quarters ;  he 
begrudges  the  morsel  we  eat,  the  rude  hut 


CAMP   SCENE.  119 

that  shelters  us.  Enough !  we  go ;  even  now 
I  make  preparation.  Pull  this  strap  for  me, 
Pepe;  at  least  you  have  strength.  Ah!  If 
I  were  but  a  great  stupid  man,  it  would  be 
well  with  me  this  day  !  " 

"  But  well  for  no  one  else,  my  idol/'  said 
Pepe,  tugging  away  at  the  strap.  "  Desolation 
and  despair  for  the  rest  of  mankind.  Rose 
of  the  Antilles.  Accidental  death  to  this 
bag !  why  have  you  filled  it  so  full  ?  There ! 
it  is  strapped.  Manuela,  is  it  possible  that  I 
live  without  you  ?  No !  I  shall  fall  an  easy 
victim  to  the  first  fever  that  comes ;  already 
I  feel  it  scorching  my  —  " 

"  Oh,  a  paralysis  upon  you  !  Can  I  exer- 
cise my  thoughts,  with  the  chatter  of  a  parrot 
in  my  ears  ?  Attend,  then,  Pepe,  —  you  will 
miss  me  a  little,  will  you?  Just  a  very 
little?" 

Pepe  opened  his  mouth  for  new  and  fiery 
protestations,  but  was  bidden  peremptorily  to 
shut  it  again. 


120  KITA. 

"  I  desire  now  to  hear  myself  speak/'  said 
Manuela.  "  I  weary,  Pepe,  for  the  sound  of 
my  own  poor  little  voice.  Listen,  then  !  These 
days  I  have  been  here,  and  you  have  never 
asked  me  what  I  brought  with  me  for  you ; 
brought  all  that  cruel  way  from  the  city.  I 
knew  I  should  find  you  somewhere,  my  good 
Pepe ;  or,  if  not  you,  some  other  friend, 
some  other  good  son  of  Cuba.  I  thought 
of  you,  I  remembered  you,  even  in  the 
rush  of  our  departure.  See!  It  is  yours. 
May   it   bring   you   fortune ! " 

She  handed  him  a  little  packet,  neatly 
folded  in  white  paper,  and  tied  with  a 
crimson  ribbon.  Receiving  it  with  dra- 
matic eagerness,  Pepe  opened  it  and  looked 
with   delight  at  its  contents. 

"  A  detente  !  "  he  cried.  "  Manuela !  and 
the  most  beautiful  that  has  been  seen  upon 
the  earth.  This  is  not  for  me  !  No  !  Impos- 
sible !  The  General  alone  is  worthy  to  wear 
this  object  of  an  elegance  so  resplendent." 


CAMP    SCENE.  121 

Reassured  on  this  point,  he  proceeded  to 
pin  the  emblem  on  his  jacket,  a^  con- 
templated it  with  delighted  pride.  It  was 
a  simple  thing  enough ;  a  square  of  white 
flannel  the  size  of  an  ordinary  needlebook, 
neatly  scalloped  around  the  edge  with  white 
silk.  In  the  centre  was  embroidered  a  crim- 
son heart,  and  under  it  the  words,  "  Detente  ! 
pienso  en  ti  !  "  {"  Be  of  good  cheer  !  I  think 
of   thee ! ") 

"  And  did  you  really  think  of  me,  Manu- 
ela?''  cried  the  delighted  Pepe.  "Did  you, 
bright  and  gay,  in  the  splendid  city,  think  of 
the  lonely  soldier  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Manuela,  "when  I 
had  nothing  else  to  do.  And  now  you  may 
go  away,  Pepe,  I  am  busy ;  I  cannot  attend 
to  you  any  longer." 

"But,"  said  Pepe,  bewildered,  "you  called 
me,  Manuela." 

"  Yes ;  to  strap  my  bag.  It  is  done ;  I 
thank  you.     It  is  finished." 


122  KITA. 

"And  —  you  have  given  me  the  detente, 
moon  of  my  soul !  " 

"Then  you  cannot  complain  that  I  never 
gave  you  anything.  And  now  I  give  you 
one  thing  more,  —  leave  to  depart.  Adios, 
Don  Pepe ! "  and  she  actually  shut  the  door 
of  the  hut  in  the  face  of  her  astonished  adorer, 
who  departed  muttering  strange  things  con- 
cerning the  changeableness  of  all  women,  and 
of  Manuela  in  particular. 

Meanwhile,  Rita  and  Carlos  were  wandering 
about  the  camp,  and  Eita  was  seeing,  as  her 
brother  promised,  some  things  that  were  new 
to  her,  even  after  a  stay  of  nearly  a  week. 
She  s^  the  kitchen,  or  what  passed  for  a 
kitchen,  —  a  pleasant  spot  under  a  palm-tree, 
where  the  cook  was  even  then  toasting  long 
strips  of  meat  over  the  parilla^  a  kind  of 
gridiron,  made  by  simply  driving  four  stakes, 
and  laying  bits  of  wood  across  and  across 
them,  then  lighting  a  fire  beneath. 

"But  why   does    it    not    burn  up,    your 


CAMP   SCENE.  123 

par  ilia  ?  "  asked  Rita  of  the  long,  lean,  coffee- 
coloured  soldier,  picturesque  and  ragged,  who 
was  turning  the  strips  with  a  forked  stick. 

"Pardon,  gracious  senorita,  it  does  burn 
up ;  not  the  first  time,  nor  perhaps  the  second, 
but  without  doubt  the  third." 

"And  then ?'^ 

"And  then,  —  it  is  but  to  build  another. 
An  affair  of  a  moment,  senorita." 

"  But  does  not  the  meat  often  fall  into  the 
fire  when  it  breaks  ?  " 

"  Sufficiently  often,  most  noble.  What  of 
that?  It  imparts  a  flavour  of  its  own;  one 
brushes  off  the  ashes  —  soldiers  do  not  dine 
at  the  Hotel  Royal,  one  must  observe.  May 
I  offer  the  senorita  a  bit  of  this  excellent 
beef  ?  This  has  not  fallen  down  at  all,  or  at 
most  but  once,  one  little  time." 

Rita  thanked  him,  but  was  not  hungry. 
At  least  she  would  have  a  cup  of  guarapo^ 
the  hospitable  cook  begged ;  and  he  hastened 
to  bring  her  a  cup  of  polished  cocoanut  shell, 


124  RITA. 

filled  with  the  favourite  drink,  whicli  was 
simply  hot  water  with  sugar  dissolved  in  it. 
Rita  took  the  cup  graciously,  and  drank  to 
the  health  of  the  camp,  and  to  the  freedom  of 
Cuba;  the  cook  responded  with  many  bows 
and  profuse  thanks  for  the  honour  she  had 
done  him,  and  the  brother  and  sister  passed 
on. 

"  There  are  some  good  bananas  near  here," 
said  Carlos;  ^Hittle  red  ones,  the  kind  you 
like,  Rita.  I'll  fill  a  basket  for  you  to  take 
with  you;  Don  Annunzio's  may  not  be  so 
good." 

They  were  making  their  way  through  a 
tangle  of  tall  grass  and  young  palm-trees, 
when  suddenly  Rita  stopped,  and  laid  her 
hand  on  her  brother's  arm. 

"  Look  !  "  she  said.  "  Look  yonder,  Carlos  ! 
The  grass  moves." 

"A  snake,  perhaps,"  said  Carlos;  "or  a 
land-crab.  Stand  here  a  moment,  and  I  will 
go  forward  and  see." 


CAMP    SCENE.  125 

He  advanced,  looking  keenly  at  the  clump 
of  yellowish  grass  that  Rita  had  pointed  out. 
Certainly,  the  grass  did  move.  It  quivered, 
waved  from  side  to  side,  then  seemed  to 
settle  down,  as  if  an  invisible  hand  were 
pulling  it  from  below.  Carlos  drew  his 
machete,  and  bent  forward;  whereupon  a 
loud  yell  was  heard,  and  the  clump  of  grass 
shot  up  into  the  air,  revealing  a  black  face, 
and  a  pair  of  rolling  eyes. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  cried  Rita,  in  terror.  "  Car- 
los, come  back  to  me !     It  is  a  devil !  " 

"  Only  a  scout !  "  said  her  brother,  laughing. 
"  One  of  our  own  men  on  outpost  duty.  Have 
peace,  Pablo !  your  hour  is  not  yet  come/' 

"  Caramba !  I  thought  it  was,  my  cap- 
tain !  "  said  the  negro  scout,  grinning.  "  Better 
be  a  crab  than  a  Cuban  in  these  days.'' 

He  was  a  singular  figure  indeed.  From 
head  to  waist  he  was  literally  clothed  in  grass, 
bunches  of  it  being  tied  over  his  head  and 
round  his  neck  and  shoulders,  falling  to  his 


126  KITA. 

thighs.  A  pair  of  ragged  trousers  of  no 
particular  colour  completed  his  costume.  A 
more  perfect  disguise  could  not  be  imagined ; 
indeed,  except  when  he  lifted  his  head,  he 
was  not  to  be  distinguished  from  the  clumps 
and  tufts  of  dry  grass  all  about  him. 

"  Pablo  is  a  good  scout ! "  said  Carlos,  ap- 
provingly. "  No  Gringo  could  possibly  see  you 
till  he  stepped  on  you,  Pablo ;  and  then  —  " 

"  And  then ! ''  said  Pablo,  grinning  from 
ear  to  ear;  and  he  drew  his  machete  and 
went  through  an  expressive  pantomime  which, 
if  carried  out,  would  certainly  have  left  very 
little  of  Gringo  or  any  one  else. 

"Is  your  post  near  here?  show  it!  The 
senorita  would  like  to  see  how  a  Cuban  scout 
lives." 

Pablo,  a  man  of  few  words,  gave  a  pleased 
nod,  and  scuttled  away  through  the  bush, 
beckoning  them  to  follow.  Rita,  stepping 
carefully  along,  holding  her  brother's  hand, 
kept  her  eyes  on  the  scout  for  a  few  moments ; 


CAMP    SCENE.  127 

then  he  seemed  to  melt  into  the  rest  of  the 
grass,  and  was  gone.  A  few  steps  more,  and 
they  almost  fell  over  him,  as  his  black  face 
popped  up  again,  shaking  back  its  grassy 
fringes. 

"  Behold  the  domicile  of  Pablo  !  "  he  said, 
with  a  magnificent  gesture.  "  The  property, 
with  all  it  contains,  of  the  senorita  and  the 
Senor  Captain  Don  Carlos." 

Brother  and  sister  tried  to  look  becom- 
ingly impressed  as  they  surveyed  the  domain. 
Close  under  a  waving  palm-tree  a  rag  of 
brown  canvas  was  stretched  on  two  sticks 
laid  across  upright  branches  stuck  in  the 
ground.  Under  this  awning  was  space  for  a 
man  to  sit,  or  even  to  lie  down,  if  he  did  not 
mind  his  feet  being  in  the  sun.  A  small  iron 
pot,  hung  on  three  sticks  over  some  black- 
ened stones,  showed  where  the  householder 
did  his  cooking ;  a  heap  of  leaves  and  grass 
answered  for  bed  and  pillows ;  this  was  the 
domicile  of  Pablo. 


128  RITA. 

Breaking  a  twig  from  a  neighbouring 
shrub,  the  scout  bent  over  the  pot,  and 
speared  a  plantain,  which  he  offered  to  Rita 
with  grave  courtesy.  She  took  it  with  equal 
dignity,  thanking  him  with  her  most  gracious 
smile,  and  ate  it  daintily,  praising  its  flavour 
and  the  perfection  of  its  cooking  till  the 
good  negro's  face  shone  with  pleasure. 

*^^And  you  stay  here  alone,  Pablo?"  she 
asked.  '^  How  long  ?  you  are  not  afraid  ? 
No,  of  course  not  that;  you  are  a  soldier. 
But  lonely !  is  it  not  very  lonely  here,  at 
night  above  all  ?  " 

Pablo  spread  out  his  hands.  ^^  Senorita, 
possibly  —  if  it  were  not  for  the  crabs. 
These  good  souls  —  they  have  the  disposition 
of  a  Christian  !  —  sit  with  me,  in  the  inter- 
vals of  their  occupations,  and  are  excellent 
company.  They  cannot  talk,  but  that  suits 
me  very  well.  Then,  there  is  always  the 
chance  of  some  one  coming  by  —  as  to-day, 
when  the  Blessed  Virgin  sends  the  senorita 


CAMP   SCENE.  129 

and  the  Senor  Don  Carlos.  Also  at  any 
moment  the  devil  may  send  me  a  Gringo ; 
their  scouts  are  as  plenty  as  scorpions.  No, 
senorita,  I  am  not  lonely.  It  is  a  fine  life  ! 
In  a  prison,  you  see,  it  would  be  quite  other- 
wise." 

"But  there  are  other  ways  of  living, 
Pablo,  beside  scouting  and  going  to  prison," 
said  Kita,  much  amused. 

"  Without  dqubt !  Without  doubt ! "  said 
Pablo,  cheerfully.  "And  assuredly  neither 
would  befit  the  senorita.  May  she  live  as 
happy  as  she  is  beautiful,  the  sun  being  black 
beside  her.  Adios^  senorita;  adioSy  Senor 
Captain  Don  Carlos  !  " 

"  AdioSy  good  Pablo !  good  luck  to  you 
and  your  crabs ! "  and  laughing  and  waving 
a  salute,  they  left  the  scout  nodding  his 
grass-crowned  head  like  a  transformed  man- 
darin, and  went  back  to  the  camp. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    PACIFICOS. 

A  LONG,  low  adobe  house,  brilliantly  white 
with  plaster ;  a  verandah  with  swinging  ham- 
mocks ;  the  inevitable  green  blinds ;  the  in- 
evitable cane  and  banana  patch;  this  was 
Don  Annunzio's.  Don  Annunzio  Carreno 
himself  (to  give  him  his  full  name  for  once, 
though  he  seldom  heard  or  used  it)  sat  in  a 
large  rocking-chair  on  the  verandah,  smoking. 
He  was  enormously  stout  and  supremely 
placid,  and  he  looked  the  picture  of  peace  and 
prosperity,  in  his  spotless  white  suit  and 
broad-brimmed  hat. 

To  Rita,  weary  after  her  ten  miles'  ride 
from  the  camp,  the  whole  place  seemed  a 
page  out  of  a  picture-book.  Her  mind  was 
filled  with  rugged  and  startling  images :  the 

130 


THE   PACIFICOS.  131 

rude  hospital,  with  its  ghastly  sights  and 
homely  though  devoted  tendance ;  the  ragged 
soldiers,  with  head  or  arm  bound  in  bloody, 
bandages ;  the  camp  fire  and  kitchen,  the 
scout  in  his  grassy  panoply.  Her  eyes  had 
grown  accustomed  to  sights  like  these,  and 
the  bright  whiteness  of  house  and  house- 
holder, the  trim  array  of  flower-beds  and 
kitchen-garden,  struck  her  as  strange  and  arti- 
ficial. She  felt  as  if  Don  Annunzio  ought  to 
be  wound  up  from  behind,  and  was  whim- 
sically surprised  to  see  him  rise  and  come 
forward  to  meet  them. 

Carlos  made  his  explanation,  and  presented 
General  Sevillo's  letter.  Don  Annunzio's  hat 
was  already  in  his  hand  and  he  was  bowing 
to  Kita  with  all  the  grace  his  size  allowed ; 
but  now  he  implored  them  to  enter  the  house, 
which  he  declared  he  occupied  henceforward 
only  at  their  pleasure. 

"  If  the  senorita  will  graciously  descend !  " 
said  the  good  man.     "  On  the  instant  I  call 


132  RITA. 

my  wife.  Prudencia !  Where  are  you,  then  ? 
Visitors,  Prudencia ;  visitors  of  distinction. 
Hasten  quickly ! " 

A  woman  appeared  in  the  doorway;  tall 
and  lean,  clad  in  brown  calico,  with  a  sun- 
bonnet  to  match,  but  with  apron  and  kerchief 
as  snowy  as  Don  Annunzio's  "  ducks." 

"  For  the  land's  sake ! "  said  Senora  Carreno. 

Rita  looked  up  quickly. 

"  Visitors,  my  love  !  "  Don  Annunzio  ex- 
plained rapidly,  in  good  enough  English. 
"  The  Senor  Captain  and  the  Senorita  Mont- 
fort,  bringing  a  note  from  his  Excellency 
General  Sevillo.  The  senorita  will  remain 
with  us  for  some  days ;  I  have  placed  all  at 
her  disposal;  I  —  " 

"There,  Noonsey!"  said  the  lady,  not 
unkindly.  "You  set  down,  and  let  me  see 
what's  goin'  on." 

She  laid  a  powerful  hand  on  her  husband's 
shoulder,  and  pushed  him  into  his  chair  again ; 
then  advanced  to  the  verandah  steps,  regard- 


THE    PACIFICOS.  133 

ing  the  newcomers  with  frank  but  cheerful 
scrutiny. 

^^ What's  all  this?"  she  said.  "Good 
mornin' !  Yes,  it's  a  fine  day.  Won't  you 
step  in?" 

Carlos  told  his  story,  and  asked  permission 
for  his  sister  and  her  maid  to  spend  some 
days  at  the  house  until  some  permanent  place 
could  be  found  for  her. 

The  senora  considered  with  frowning  brows, 
not  of  anger  but  of  consideration. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  did  say  I  wouldn't 
take  no  more  boarders.  I  had  trouble  with 
the  last  ones,  and  said  I'd  got  through  accom- 
modatin'  folks'.  Still  —  I  dunno  but  we  could 
manage  —  does  she  understand  when  she's 
spoke  to  —  English,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  do !  "  cried  Rita,  coming 
forward.  "  I  am  only  half  Cuban  ;  it  is  good 
to  hear  you  speak.  If  you  will  let  me  stay, 
I  will  try  to  give  little  trouble.  May  I  stay, 
please?" 


134  KITA. 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  may ! "  cried  the  New 
England  woman.  "  You  walk  right  in  and 
lay  off  your  things,  and  make  yourself  to 
home.  The  idea  !  Why  didn't  you  say  —  why, 
it's  as  good  as  a  meal  o'  victuals  to  hear  you 
speak.  Been  to  the  States,  have  you  ?  Well, 
now,  if  that  don't  beat  all!  Noonsey,  you 
go  and  tell  Jose  we  shall  want  them  chickens 
for  supper.  Set  down,  young  man!  This 
your  hired  gal,  dear  ?  Does  she  speak  Eng- 
lish ?     Well  no,  I  s'pose  not." 

She  said  a  few  words  to  Manuela  in  Spanish 
which,  if  not  melodious,  was  intelligible,  and 
then  led  Rita  into  the  house,  talking  all  the 
way. 

"Here's  the  settin'-room ;  and  here's  the 
spare-room  off'n  it.  There !  lay  your  things 
on  the  bed,  dear.  I  keep  on  talkin',  when 
all  the  time  I  want  to  hear  you  talk.  It  is 
good  to  hear  your  native  speech,  say  what 
they  will.  Husband,  he  does  his  best,  to 
please  me;  but  it's   like  as  though  he  was 


THE    PACIFICOS.  135 

speakin'  molasses,  some  way.  Been  in  the 
States  to  school,  did  you  say  ?  " 

Rita  told  her  story :  of  her  American  father, 
who  had  always  spoken  English  with  her  and 
her  brother;  of  the  summer  spent  in  the 
North  with  her  uncle  and  cousins.  "  Oh," 
she  said,  ^^you  are  right.  I  used  to  think 
that  I  was  two-thirds  Cuban;  I  thought  I 
cared  little,  little,  for  the  American  part  of 
me.  Now  —  but  it  is  music  to  hear  you 
speak,  Senora  Carreno." 

"  S'pose  you  call  me  Marm  Prudence ! " 
said  the  good  woman,  half -shyly.  "1  don't 
see  as  'twould  be  any  harm,  and  I  should 
like  dretful  well  to  hear  the  name  again.  I 
was  a  widow  when  I  married  Don  Noonzio. 
Yes'm.  My  first  husband  was  captain  of  a 
fruit  schooner.  I  voyaged  with  him  con- 
siderable. He  died  in  Santiago,  and  I  never 
went  back  home :  I  couldn't  seem  to.  I 
washed  and  sewed  for  families  I  knew,  and 
then  bumbye  I  married   Don  Noonzio.     He 


136  RITA. 

gave  me  a  good  home,  and  he's  a  good  pro- 
vider. There's  times,  though,  that  I'm  terri- 
ble homesick.  There!  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  do  if  'twa'n't  for  my  settin'-room. 
Did  you  notice  it,  comin'  through  ?  I  just 
go  there  and  set  sometimes,  and  look  round, 
and  cry.     It  does  me  a  sight  o'  good." 

Rita  had  indeed  glanced  around  the  sitting- 
room  as  she  passed  through  it,  but  it  said 
nothing  to  her.  The  six  haircloth  chairs, 
the  marble-topped  centre-table  with  its  wool 
and  bead  mat,  its  glass  lamp  with  the  red 
wick,  its  photograph-album  and  gilt  family 
Bible,  did  not  speak  her  language.  Neither 
did  the  mantelpiece,  with  its  two  china 
poodles  and  its  bunches  of  dried  grasses  in 
vases  of  red  and  white  Bohemian  glass.  The 
Cuban  girl  could  not  know  how  eloquent 
were  all  these  things  to  the  exiled  Vermont 
woman ;  but  she  looked  sympathetic,  and  felt 
so,  her  heart  warming  to  the  homely  soul, 
with  her  rugged  speech  and  awkward  gestures. 


THE    PACIFICOS.  137 

Marm  Prudence  now  insisted  that  her  guest 
must  be  tired,  and  brought  out  a  superb  quilt, 
powdered  with  red  and  blue  stars,  to  tuck 
her  up  under;  but  word  came  that  Captain 
Montfort  was  going,  and  Rita  hurried  out  to 
the  verandah  to  bid  him  farewell.  Carlos  took 
her  in  his  arms,  affectionately.  "  How  is  it, 
then,  little  sister?"  he  asked.  "Are  you 
reconciled  at  all  ?  Can  you  stay  here  in  peace 
a  little,  with  these  good  people  ?  " 

Rita  returned  his  caress  heartily.  "  You 
were  right,  Carlos ! "  she  said.  "  You  and 
the  dear  General  were  both  right.  It  was 
wonderful  to  be  there  in  camp ;  I  shall  never 
forget  it ;  I  hope  I  shall  be  better  all  my  life 
for  it;  but  I  could  not  have  stayed  long,  I 
see  that  now.  Here  I  shall  be  taken  care  of ; 
here  I  shall  rest,  as  under  a  grandmother's 
care.  This  good  Marm  Prudence,  —  that  is 
what  I  am  to  call  her,  Carlos,  —  already  I 
love  her,  already  she  tends  me  as  a  bird  tends 
her  young.     Ah,  Carlos,  you  will  not  neglect 


138  RITA. 

Chico  ?  I  leave  him  as  a  sacred  legacy.  The 
men  implored  me  so.  They  said  the  bird  had 
brought  them  good  fortune  once,  and  would 
be  their  salvation  again ;  I  had  not  the  heart 
to  take  him  from  them.  You  will  see  that 
they  do  not  feed  him  too  much?  Already 
he  has  had  a  fit  of  illness  from  too  much 
kindness  on  the  part  of  our  faithful  soldiers. 
Thank  you !  and  have  no  thought  of  me,  my 
brother;  all  will  be  well  with  me.  Return 
to  your  glorious  duty,  son  of  Cuba.  It  may 
be  that  even  here,  in  this  peaceful  spot,  it 
may  be  given  to  your  Rita  to  serve  the 
mother  we  both  adore.  Adios,  Carlos  !  Heaven 
be  with  thee !  " 

Carlos,  who  was  of  a  practical  turn  of  mind, 
was  always  uncomfortable  when  Rita  spread 
her  rhetorical  wings.  He  did  not  see  why 
she  could  not  speak  plain  English.  But  he 
kissed  her  affectionately,  heartily  glad  that 
he*  could  leave  her  content  with  her  surround- 
ings )  and  with  a  cordial  farewell  to  the  good 


THE   PACIFICOS.  139 

people  of  the  house,  he  rode  away,  followed 
by  his  clanking  orderlies,  leading  the  horse 
Kita  had  ridden. 

While  all  this  had  been  going  on,  Manuela 
had  been  arranging  her  mistress's  things; 
shaking  out  the  crumpled  dresses,  brushing 
off  the  bits  of  grass  and  broken  straw  that 
clung  to  hem  and  ruffle,  mementoes  of  the 
days  in  camp.  Manuela  sighed  over  these 
relics,  and  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"  Poor  Pepe  !  "  she  said.  "  If  only  he  does 
not  fall  into  a  fever  from  grief !  Ah,  love 
is  a  terrible  thing !  Dios !  what  a  rent  in 
the  senorita's  serge  skirt !  A  paralysis  on  the 
brambles  in  that  place !  yet  it  was  a  good 
place.  At  least  there  was  life.  One  heard 
voices,  neighing  of  horses,  jingling  of  stirrups. 
Here  we  shall  grow  into  two  young  cabbages 
beside  that  old  one,  my  senorita  and  her  poor 
Manuela.     Ah,  life  is  very  sad  !  " 

Here  Manuela  chanced  to  look  out  of  the 
window,   and   saw   a   handsome   Creole   boy 


140  RITA. 

leading  a  horse  to  water  in  the  courtyard.  In- 
stantly her  face  lighted  up.  She  flew  to  the 
looking-glass,  and  was  arranging  her  hair 
with  passionate  eagerness,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  Rita  entered,  followed  by  their 
kind  hostess.  Manuela  started,  then  turned 
to  drop  a  demure  courtsey.  "  I  was  examin- 
ing the  glass,"  she  explained,  "to  see  if  it 
was  fit  for  the  senorita  to  use.  These  common 
mirrors,  you  understand,  they  draw  the  coun- 
tenance this  way,  that  way,  —  "  she  expressed 
her  meaning  in  vivid  pantomime,  —  "one 
thinks  one's  visage  of  caoutchouc.  But  this 
is  passable  ;  I  assure  you,  senorita,  passable." 

"Well,  I  declare!"  said  Marm  Prudence. 
"  My  best  looking-glass,  that  I  brought  from 
Chelsea,  Massachusetts,  when  I  was  first 
married!  If  it  ain't  good  enough  for  you, 
young  woman,  you're  free  to  do  without  it, 
and  so  I  tell  you." 

She  spoke  with  some  severity,  but  softened 
instantly  as  she  turned  to  Rita.     "  Now  you'll 


THE   PACIFICOS.  141 

lie  down  and  rest  you  a  spell,  won't  you,  dear  ?  " 
she  said.  "  I  must  go  and  see  about  supper, 
and  I  sha'n't  be  satisfied  till  I  see  you  tucked 
up  under  my  '  Old  Glory  spread.'  That's  what 
I  call  it ;  it  has  the  colours,  you  see.  There ! 
comfortable  ?  Now  you  shut  your  pretty  eyes, 
and  have  a  good  sleep.  And  you,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Manuela,  "  can  come  and  help  me 
a  spell,  if  you've  nothing  better  to  do.  I'm 
short-handed ;  help  is  turrible  skurce  in  war- 
time, and  I  can  keep  you  out  of  Satan's  hands, 
if  nothing  else." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN   HIDING. 

"  You  busy,  Miss  Margaritty  ?  " 

It  was  Marm  Prudence's  voice,  and  at  the 
sound  Eita  opened  her  door  quickly.  She 
and  Manuela  had  been  holding  a  mournful 
consultation  over  the  state  of  her  wardrobe, 
which  had  had  rough  usage  during  the  past 
two  weeks,  and  she  was  glad  of  an  inter- 
ruption. 

"  I  thought  mebbe  you'd  like  to  come  and 
set  with  me  a  spell  while  I  worked." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  cried  Rita,  eagerly.  "  And 
may  I  not  work,  too  ?  Isn't  there  something 
I  can  do  to  help  ?  " 

''  Why,  I  should  be  pleased ! "  said  the 
good  woman.  "I'm  braidin'  hats  for  the 
soldiers.      I    promised    a    dozen    to-morrow 

142 


m  HIDING.  143* 

night.  It's  pretty  work;  mebbe  you'd  like 
to  try." 

''  For  the  soldiers  ?  For  our  soldiers  ?  Oh, 
what  joy  J  Marm  Prudencia !  No,  Prudence, 
you  like  better  that.  Show  me,  please !  I 
burn  to  begin." 

"  Why,  you're  real  eager,  ain't  you  ?  "  said 
Marm  Prudence.  ^^Now  I'm  glad  I  spoke; 
I  thought  mebbe  'twould  suit  you.  Young 
folks  like  to  be  at  something." 

In  a  few  minutes  the  two  were  seated  on 
the  cool  inner  verandah,  looking  out  on  the 
garden,  with  a  great  basket  between  them, 
heaped  with  delicate  strips  of  palmetto  leaf, 
white  and  smooth. 

"  Husband,  he  whittles  'em  for  me,"  Marm 
Prudence  explained.  ^'  It's  occupation  for 
him.  Fleshy  as  he  is,  he  can't  get  about 
none  too  much,  and  this  keeps  his  hands 
busy.  It's  hard  to  be  a  man  and  lose  the 
activity  of  your  limbs.  But  there !  there's 
compensations,   I  always   say.      If   Noonsey 


144  RITA. 

was  as  he  was  ten  years  ago,  he'd  be  off  with 
the  rest,  and  then  where' d  I  be  ?  " 

"  Then  "  —  Rita's  eyes  flashed,  and  she  bent 
nearer  her  hostess,  and  spoke  low.  "  Then 
you  are  not  at  heart  pacificos^  Marm  Pru- 
dence. On  the  surface,  I  understand,  I  com- 
prehend, it  is  necessary ;  but  au  fond^  in  your 
secret  hearts,  you  are  with  us ;  you  are  Cubans. 
Is  it  not  so  ?     It  must  be  so  !  " 

"  Oh,  land,  yes ! "  said  Marm  Prudence, 
composedly.  "  I'm  an  American,  you  see ; 
and  husband,  he's  a  Cuban  five  generations 
back.  We  don't  have  no  dealin's  with  the 
Gringos,  more  than  we're  obleeged  to.  Livin' 
right  close  t'  the  road  as  we  do,  we  can't  let 
out  the  way  we  feel,  but  I  guess  there's 
mighty  few  Mambis  about  here  but  knows 
where  to  come  when  they  want  things. 
There  ain't  many  so  bold  as  your  brother, 
to  come  in  open  daylight,  but  come  night, 
they're  often  as  thick  as  bats  about  the 
garden  here.     There !     I  have   to  shoo  'em 


m  HiDiisrG.  145 

off  sometimes;  yet  I  like  to  have  'em, 
too." 

Rita's  face  glowed  with  excitement.  "  Oh, 
Marm  Prudence/'  she  cried  ]  "  how  glorious ! 
Oh,  what  fortune,  what  joy,  to  be  here  with 
you !  We  will  work  together ;  we  will  toil ; 
our  blood  shall  flow  in  fountains,  if  it  is 
needed.     Embrace  me,  mother  of  Cuba  !  " 

Marm  Prudence  put  on  her  spectacles,  and 
surveyed  the  excited  girl  with  some  anxiety. 

^^Let  me  feel  your  pult,  dear!"  she  said, 
soothingly.  "  You  got  a  touch  o'  sun,  like  as 
not,  riding  in  that  heat  this  morning.  Now 
there's  no  call  to  get  worked  up,  or  talk 
about  blood-sheddin'.  Blood-sheddin'  ain't  in 
our  line,  yours  nor  mine,  nor  husband's 
neither.  Fur  as  doin'  goes,  we're  all  pacificos 
here.  Miss  Margaritty,  and  you  mustn't  for- 
get that.  Just  wait  a  minute,  and  I'll  go 
and  git  you  a  cup  of  my  balm-tea;  'tis  real 
steadyin'  to  the  nerves,  and  I  expect  yours  is 
strung  up  some  with  all  you've  be'n  through." 


146  RITA. 

Rita  protested  that  she  was  perfectly  well, 
and  not  at  all  excited;  but  she  submitted, 
and  drank  the  balm-tea  meekly,  as  it  was 
cold  and  refreshing. 

"  It  is  my  ardent  nature ! "  she  explained. 
"It  is  the  fire  of  my  patriotism  which 
consumes  me.  Do  you  not  feel  it,  Marm 
Prudence,  oftentimes,  like  a  flame  in  .your 
bosom?" 

No,  Marm  Prudence  was  not  aware  that 
she  did.  Things  took  folks  different,  she 
said,  placidly.  She  had  an  aunt  when  she  was 
a  little  gal,  that  used  to  have  spasms  reg'lar 
every  time  she  heard  the  baker's  cart.  Some 
thought  she  had  had  hopes  of  the  baker  be- 
fore he  married  a  widow  woman,  but  you 
couldn't  always  account  for  these  things. 
What  a  pretty  braid  Rita  was  getting ! 

Indeed,  the  work  suited  Rita's  nimble  fin- 
gers to  perfection,  and  yard  after  yard  of 
snowy  braid  rolled  over  her  lap  and  grew 
into  a  pile  at  her  feet.     She  was  eager  to 


!2| 

> 
H 


IN   HIDING.  147 

make  her  first  hat.  After  an  hour  or  two 
of  braiding,  she  discovered  that  it  suited 
Manuela's  genius  better  than  her  own.  The 
basket  of  splints  was  turned  over  to  the  will- 
ing handmaiden,  and  good-natured  Marm 
Prudence  showed  Rita  how  to  sew  the  braids 
together  smooth  and  flat,  and  initiated  her 
into  the  mysteries  of  crown  and  brim.  In 
a  creditably  short  space  of  time,  Rita,  with 
infinite  pride,  held  her  first  hat  aloft,  and 
twirled  it  round  and  round  on  her  finger. 

^^But,  it  is  perfect!"  she  cried.  ^^The 
shape,  the  colour,  the  air  of  it.  Manuela, 
quick  !  a  mirror  !  hold  it  for  me  —  so !  look !  " 
She  took  the  ribbon  from  her  belt,  and  began 
to  twist  it  in  one  coquettish  knot  after  another 
about  the  hat,  which  she  had  set  on  her  dark 
hair. 

^^Is  that  chic?  Is  it  adorable,  I  ask  you? 
Was  such  a  hat  ever  seen  in  Paris  ?  Never  ! 
I  wear  no  other  from  this  day  on ;  hear  me 
swear  it!     It  will  become  the  rage;  I  will 


148  RITA. 

make  it  so.  Or — no  !  I  will  keep  to  myself  the 
secret,  and  others  will  die  of  envy.  I  name 
it,  Manuela.  The  Prudencia,  for  thee,  my 
kind  hostess.     Why  do  you  laugh  ?  " 

Marm  Prudence  was  twinkling  in  her  quiet 
way.  "I  was  only  thinkin'  there'd  have  to 
one  soldier  boy  go  without  his  hat  to-mor- 
row !  "  she  said,  good-humouredly.  "  It  does 
look  nice  on  you,  though,  Miss  Margaritty, 
that's  certin." 

Blushing  scarlet,  Rita  tore  the  hat  from 
her  head. 

^^Ah!"  she  cried,  casting  it  on  the  floor. 
''  Wretch,  ingrate,  serpent  that  I  am !  Take 
away  the  glass,  girl !  take  it  away ;  break  it 
into  a  thousand  pieces,  to  shame  my  vanity, 
and  never  speak  to  me  of  hats  again.  Hence- 
forward I  tie  a  shawl  over  my  head,  for  the 
remainder  of  my  life;  I  have  said  it." 

Much  depressed,  she  worked  away  in  silence, 
as  if  her  life  depended  upon  it.  Manuela, 
shrugging  her  shoulders,  carried  off  the  glass. 


IN   HIDING.  149 

but  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  obey  the 
injunction  to  break  it.  She  was  used  to  her 
senorita's  outbreaks,  and  returned  placidly 
to  her  braiding  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

The  good  hostess  regarded  her  pretty 
visitor  with  some  alarm,  mingled  with  amuse- 
ment and  admiration.  She  might  have  her 
hands  full,  she  thought,  if  she  attempted  to 
keep  this  young  lady  occupied,  and  out  of 
mischief.  The  time  when  she  was  asleep 
was  likely  to  be  the  most  peaceful  time  in 
Casa  Annunzio.  Yet  how  pretty  she  was! 
and  what  a  pleasure  it  was  to  hear  her  speak, 
something  between  a  bird  and  a  flute.  On 
the  whole,  Marm  Prudence  thought  her  com- 
ing a  thing  to  be  thankful  for. 

Talking  with  Don  Annunzio  himself  that 
evening,  Rita  found  him  far  less  guarded 
than  his  wife  in  his  expression  of  patriotic 
zeal.  He  echoed  her  saying,  that  every 
Mambi  in  the  country  knew  where  to  come 
when  he  wanted  anything;  and  he  went  on 


150  RITA. 

to  draw  lurid  pictures  of  what  he  would  do 
to  the  Gringos  if  he  but  had  the  power. 

"  See,  senorita ! "  he  said,  in  his  wheezy, 
asthmatic  voice.  "I  am  powerless,  am  I 
not  ?  Already  of  a  certain  age,  I  am  afflicted 
with  an  accession  of  flesh ;  moreover,  I  am 
short  of  breath,  owing  to  this  apoplexy  of  an 
asthma.  Worse,  than  this,  my  legs,  if  the 
senorita  can  pardon  the  allusion,  refuse  now 
these  two  years  to  do  their  office.  With  two 
sticks,  I  can  hobble  about  the  house  and 
garden ;  without  them,  behold  me  a  fixture. 
How,  then?  When  the  war  breaks  out,  I 
go  to  my  General,  to  General  Sevillo,  under 
whom  I  served  in  the  ten  years'  war.  I  say 
to  him,  '  Things  are  thus  and  thus  with  me, 
but  still  I  would  serve  my  country.  Give 
me  a  horse,  and  let  me  ride  with  you  as  an 
orderly.'  Alas !  it  may  not  be.  '  Annunzio,' 
he  says,  ^your  day  of  service  in  the  field  is 
over.  Stay  at  home,  and  help  our  men  when 
they  call  upon  you.     Thus  you  can  do  more 


IN   HIDING.  151 

good    ten-fold    than    you    could    do    in  the 
saddle.' 

"  Ohime  !  my  heart  is  broken ;  it  is  reduced 
to  powder^  but  what  will  you  ?  reason,  joined 
to  authority,  —  I  am  but  a  simple  man,  and 
I  obey.  Since  then,  I  sit  and  whittle  splints 
for  my  admirable  wife.  A  woman,  senorita, 
to  rule  a  nation !  The  Gringos  pass  by,  and  see 
me  working  at  my  trade.  I  greet  them  civilly, 
I  supply  requisitions  when  backed  by  authority; 
again,  what  will  you  ?  I  suffer  in  silence  till 
their  back  is  turned,  and  my  maledictions  ac- 
company them  along  the  road.  Ah  !  if  none  of 
them  had  longer  life  than  I  wish  him,  the 
road  would  be  encumbered  with  corpses. 
Then,  —  draw  your  chair  nearer,  senorita,  if 
you  will  have  the  infinite  graciousness, — then, 
at  night  —  it  may  be  this  very  night  —  the 
others  come.  Hush!  yes  —  theMambis;  the 
sons  of  Cuba.  Quietly,  by  ones,  by  twos, 
they  appear,  dropping  from  the  sky,  rising 
from  the  earth.     Then  —  ha!  then,  you  shall 


152  RITA. 

see.  Not  a  word  more,  Senorita  Margarita ! 
Donna  Prudencia  is  a  pearl,  an  empress 
among  women,  but  rightly  named;  she  com- 
plains that  I  talk  too  much  on  these  subjects. 
But  when  one's  heart  is  in  the  field,  and  one's 
legs  refuse  to  follow,  —  again,  what  would 
you  ?  No  matter  !  silence  is  golden  !  Wait 
but  a  little,  and  you  shall  see.  Who  knows? 
It  may  be  this  very  night." 

Thus  Don  Annunzio,  with  many  nods  and 
winks,  and  gestures  of  dramatic  caution.  His 
words  fanned  the  flame  of  Rita's  zeal,  and 
she  longed  for  one  of  the  promised  nocturnal 
visits.  That  night  and  the  next  she  was 
constantly  waking,  listening  for  a  whisper, 
the  clank  of  a  chain,  the  jingle  of  a  spur  ; 
but  none  came,  and  the  nights  passed  as 
peacefully  as  the  days.  The  dozen,  and  more, 
were  completed;  and  then,  in  spite  of  her 
vow,  Rita  found  time  to  make  one  for  her- 
self, certainly  as  pretty  a  hat  as  heart  could 
desire.     So  pretty,  Rita  thought  it  a  thousand 


IN   HIDING.  153 

pities  that  there  was  no  one  beside  Don 
Annunzio  and  Marm  Prudence  to  see  her 
in  it.  She  sighed^  and  thought  of  the  camp 
among  the  hills,  of  Carlos  and  the  General, 
and  Don  Uberto. 

One  day,  soon  after  noon,  Marm  Prudence 
asked  Rita  if  she  would  like  to  take  a  walk 
with  her.  Rita  assented  eagerly,  and  put 
on  her  pretty  hat.  She  looked  on  with  sur- 
prise as  Marm  Prudence  proceeded  to  take 
from  a  cupboard  an  ample  covered  basket, 
from  which  protruded  the  neck  of  a  bottle 
and  some  plump  red  bananas. 

"Are  we  going  on  a  picnic,  then?"  she 
asked. 

The  good  woman  nodded.  "You'll  see, 
time  enough ! "  she  said.  "  It's  a  picnic 
for  somebody,  if  not  for  us.  Miss  Margaritty. 
Look,  dear !  is  Don  Noonsey  out  in  the  ro'd 
there?" 

Don  Annunzio  was  out  in  the  road,  hav- 
ing   made   what  was    quite    a   journey    for 


154  RITA. 

him,  down  the  verandah  steps,  along  the 
garden  walk,  and  across  the  sunny  road. 
He  now  stood  shading  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  looking  this  way  and  that  with  anxious 
glances. 

At  length,  "  All  is  quiet !  "  he  said.  ^^The 
road  is  clear,  and  no  sign  anywhere.  Make 
haste  then,  mi  alma,  and  cross  while  yet. all 
is  safe." 

Beckoning  to  Rita,  Marm  Prudence  slipped 
out  and  across  the  road  swiftly,  not  pausing 
till  she  had  gained  the  screen  of  a  thick 
clump  of  cacti.  Rita  kept  close  to  her  side, 
drinking  the  mystery  like  wine.  They  stood 
for  a  few  moments  behind  the  aloes;  then 
Don  Annunzio  spoke  again. 

"  All  is  still  perfect,  and  you  may  go  with- 
out fear.  Carry  my  best  greetings  whither 
you  are  going.  At  the  proper  hour  I  will 
await  you  here,  and  signal  when  return  is 
safe." 

Without  wasting   words,  his   wife   waved 


IN   HIDING.  155 

her  liand^  and  turning,  plunged  into  the 
forest,  followed  by  the  delighted  Rita. 

The  tangle  of  underbrush  was  higher  than 
their  heads,  but  they  made  their  way  quickly, 
and  Rita  soon  saw  that  a  narrow  path  wound 
along  through  the  bush,  and  that  the  ground 
under  her  feet  had  been  trodden  many  times. 
The  trees  towered  high  above  the  dense  under- 
growth, some  leafy  and  branching,  others,  the 
palms,  tossing  their  single  plume  aloft.  Open 
near  the  wood,  the  wood  grew  thicker  and 
thicker,  till  it  stood  like  a  wall  on  either  side 
of  the  narrow  footpath ;  the  twigs  and  leaves, 
broken  and  crushed  here  and  there,  showed, 
like  the  path,  the  traces  of  frequent  passage. 

Rita  was  burning  with  curiosity,  yet  she 
would  not  for  worlds  have  asked  a  question. 
They  were  nearing  every  moment  the  heart 
of  the  mystery;  she  would  not  spoil  the 
dramatic  effect  by  prying  into  it  too  soon. 

Suddenly,  a  gleam  of  sunlight  struck 
through  the  trees.     They  were  near  the  end 


156  KIT  A. 

of  the  wood^  then.  A  few  steps  more,  and 
she  caught  her  breath,  with  a  low  cry  of 
amazement. 

A  round  hollow,  dipping  deep  like  a  cup, 
with  here  and  there  a  great  tree  standing. 
On  one  side,  a  clear  spring  flowing  from  a 
rocky  cleft.  Under  one  tree,  a  hammock 
slung,  and  in  a  hammock  a  man  asleep. 
Thus  much  Rita  saw  at  the  first  glance.  The 
next  instant  the  man  was  on  his  feet,  and 
the  long  barrel  of  his  carbine  gleamed  level 
at  sight. 

"Alto!  quien  vaf  the  challenge  rang 
clear  and  sharp. 

"Cuba!''  replied  Senora  Carreno.  "For 
the  land's  sake,  Mr.  Delmonty,  don't  start 
a  person  like  that.  You'd  oughter  know  my 
sunbunnit  by  this  time." 

The  young  man  had  already  lowered  his 
weapon,  and  showed  a  laughing  face  of 
apology  as  he  lifted  his  broad-brimmed 
hat. 


IN   HIDING.  157 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Donna  Prudencia/' 
he  said.  "  I  was  asleep,  and  dreaming ;  not 
of  angels !  "  he  added,  as  he  made  another 
low  bow,  which  included  Rita  in  its  sweep 
of  respectful  courtesy. 

He  spoke  English  like  an  Anglo-Saxon, 
without  trace  of  accent  or  hesitation.  His 
hair  and  complexion  were  brown,  but  a  pair 
of  bright  blue  eyes  lightened  his  face  in  an 
extraordinary  manner. 

Who  might  this  be  ? 

"  Mr.  Delmonty,  let  me  make  ye  acquainted 
with  Miss  Margaritty  Montfort !  "  said  Seiiora 
Carreno,  with  some  ceremony.  "  Miss  Mont- 
fort is  stoppin'  with  us  for  a  spell.  Both  of 
you  bein'  half  Yankee,  I  judged  you  might 
be  pleased  to  meet  up  with  each  other." 

Rita  bowed  with  her  most  queenly  air; 
then  relaxed,  as  she  met  the  merry  glance 
of  the  blue  eyes. 

"  Are  you  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  am  very  glad  — ' 
but  your  name  is  Spanish." 


158  KITA. 

"  My  father  was  a  Cuban/'  said  the  young 
man ;  "  my  mother  is  American.  She  was 
a  Russell  of  Claxton."  He  paused  a  moment, 
as  if  inviting  comment ;  but  Rita,  brought  up 
in  Cuba,  knew  nothing  of  the  Russells  of 
Claxton,  a  famous  family. 

"  I've  been  in  the  North  most  of  the  time 
since  I  was  a  little  shaver,"  he  went  on,  ^^.at 
school  and  college ;  came  down  here  last  year, 
when  things  seemed  to  be  brewing.  Have  you 
been  much  in  Boston,  Miss  Montfort?  We 
might  have  some  acquaintances  in  common." 

Rita  shook  her  head,  and  told  him  of  her 
one  summer  in  the  North.  '^1  hope  to  go 
again,"  she  said,  "when  our  country  is  free. 
When  Cuba  has  no  longer  need  of  her 
daughters,  as  well  as  her  sons,  I  shall  gladly 
return  to  that  fair  northern  country." 

Again  she  caught  a  quizzical  glance  of  the 
blue  eyes,  and  was  reminded,  she  hardly 
knew  why,  of  her  Uncle  John.  But  Uncle 
John's  eyes  were  brown. 


IN   HIDING.  159 

"  You  are  —  alone  here,  Senor  Delmonte  ?  " 
she  asked,  glancing  around  the  solitary  dell. 

"Yes/'  said  the  young  man,  composedly. 
"  I'm  in  hiding." 

Eita's  eyes  flashed.  Hiding !  a  son  of 
Cuba !  skulking  about  in  the  woods,  while 
his  brother  soldiers  were  at  the  front,  or, 
like  Carlos,  guarding  the  hill  passes !  This 
was  indeed  being  only  half  a  Cuban.  She 
would  have  nothing  to  do  with  recreant 
soldiers ;  and  she  turned  away  with  a  face 
of  cold  displeasure. 

"  How's  your  foot  ?  "  asked  SeiSora  Carreno, 
abruptly.  "That  last  dressing  fetch  it,  do 
you  think?" 

"  All  right  ] "  said  the  young  man. 
"  Look !  I  have  my  shoe  on."  And  he 
held  up  one  foot  with  an  air  of  triumph. 
"  I  shall  be  ready  for  the  road  to-night,  and 
take  my  troublesome  self  off  your  hands, 
Senora  Carreno." 

"  No  trouble  at  all !  "  said  the  good  woman, 


160  KITA. 

earnestly.  "  Not  a  mite  of  trouble  but  what 
was  pleasure,  Captain  Jack." 

Captain  Jack !  where  had  Rita  heard  that 
name  ?  Before  she  could  try  to  think,  her 
hostess  went  on. 

"  Well,  I  kinder  hate  to  have  you  go,  but 
of  course  you're  eager,  same  as  all  young 
folks  are.  But  look  here  !  You'd  better 
pass  the  night  with  us,  and  let  me  see  to 
your  foot  once  more,  and  give  you  a  good 
night's  sleep  in  a  Christian  bed;  and  then 
I  can  mend  up  your  things  a  bit,  and  you 
lay  by  till  night  again,  and  start  off  easy 
and  comfortable." 

^^It  sounds  very  delightful,"  said  the  young 
man,  with  a  glance  at  the  charming  girl  who 
would  stand  with  her  head  turned  away. 
^^But  how  about  the  Gringos,  Donna  Pru- 
dencia?  Supposing  some  of  them  should 
come  along  to-morrow !  " 

"  They  won't  come  to-morrow  !  "  said  Marm 
Prudence,  significantly. 


m  HIDING.  161 

"  No  ?  you  have  assurance  of  that  ?  and 
why  may  they  not  come  to-morrow?" 

''  Because  they've  come  to-day^  most  likely ! " 

Rita  started,  and  turned  back  toward  the 
speakers. 

"  The  Gringos  ?  to-day  ?  "  she  cried. 

Marm  Prudence  nodded.  "  That  was  why 
I  brought  you  here,  dear/'  she  said ;  "  most 
of  the  reason,  that  is.  We  got  word  they 
was  most  likely  comin',  quite  a  passel  of  'em ; 
and  we  judged  it  was  well,  Don  Noonsey  and 
me,  that  they  shouldn't  see  you.  I  thought 
mebbe,"  she  added,  with  a  sly  glance  at  the 
basket,  "  that  if  I  brought  a  little  something 
extry,  we  might  get  an  invitation  to  take 
a  bite  of  luncheon,  but  we  don't  seem  to." 

"Oh!  but  who  could  have  supposed  that 
I  was  to  have  all  the  good  things  in  the 
world  ?  "  cried  Delmonte,  merrily.  "  This  is 
really  too  good  to  be  true.  Help  me.  Donna 
Prudencia,  while  I  set  out  the  feast !  Why, 
this  is  the  great  day  of  the  whole  campaign." 


162  RITA. 

The  two  unpacked  the  basket^  with  many 
jests  and  much  laughter ;  they  were  evidently 
old  friends.  Meantime  Rita  stood  by,  uncer- 
tain of  her  own  mood.  To  miss  an  experience, 
possibly  terrible,  certainly  thrilling ;  to  have 
lost  an  opportunity  of  declaring  herself  a 
daughter  of  Cuba,  possibly  of  shooting  a 
Spaniard  for  herself,  and  to  have  been  de- 
ceived, tricked  like  a  child ;  this  brought  her 
slender  brows  together,  ominously,  and  made 
her  eyes  glitter  in  a  way  that  Manuela  would 
have  known  well.  On  the  other  hand  — 
here  was  a  romantic  spot,  a  young  soldier, 
apparently  craven,  but  certainly  wounded, 
and  very  good-looking;  and  here  was  luncheon, 
and  she  was  desperately  hungry.  On  the 
whole  — 

The  tragedy  queen  disappeared,  and  it  was 
a  cheerful  though  very  dignified  young  person 
who  responded  gracefully  to  Delmonte's  peti- 
tion that  she  would  do  him  the  favour  to 
be  seated  at  his  humble  board. 


CHAPTER  X. 

manuela's  oppoktunity. 

That  was  a  pleasant  little  meal,  under 
the  great  plane-tree  in  the  cup-shaped  dell. 
Marm  Prudence  had  kept,  through  all  her 
years  of  foreign  residence,  her  New  England 
touch  in  cookery,  and  Senor  Delmonte  de- 
clared that  it  was  worth  a  whole  campaign 
twice  over  to  taste  her  doughnuts.  They 
drank  "  Cuba  Libre "  in  raspberry  vinegar 
that  had  come  all  the  way  from  Vermont, 
and  Rita  was  obliged  to  confess  that  Senor 
Delmonte  was  a  charming  host,  and  that  she 
was  enjoying  herself  extremely. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  she  and 
Marm  Prudence  took  their  way  back  through 
the  forest.     At  first  Rita  was  silent;  but  as 

163 


164  RITA. 

distance  increased  between  them  and  the  dell, 
she  could  not  restrain  her  curiosity. 

How  was  it;  she  asked,  that  this  young 
man  was  there  alone,  separated  from  his 
companions  ?  He  said  he  was  in  hiding.  Hid- 
ing! a  detestable,  an  unworthy  word!  Why 
should  a  son  of  Cuba  be  in  hiding,  she  wished 
to  know !  She  had  worked  herself  into-  a 
fine  glow  of  indignation  again,  and  was  ready 
to  believe  anything  and  everything  bad  about 
the  agreeable  youth  with  the  blue  eyes. 

"  I  must  know ! ''  she  repeated,  dropping 
her  voice  to  a  contralto  note  that  she  was 
fond  of.  "  Tell  me,  Marm  Prudence  ;  tell  me 
all !  have  I  broken  the  bread  of  a  recreant  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  was  my  bread,"  said  Marm 
Prudence,  dryly.  "  I'll  tell  you,  if  you'll  give 
me  a  chance.  Miss  Margaritty.  I  supposed, 
though,  that  you'd  have  heard  of  Jack  Del- 
monty ;  Captain  Jack,  as  they  call  him.  Since 
his  last  raid  the  Gringos  have  offered  a  big  re- 
ward for  him,  alive  or  dead.    He  was  wounded 


majstuela's  opportunity.  165 

in  the  foot,  and  thought  he  might  hender  his 
troop  some  if  he  tried  to  go  with  them  in 
that  state.  So  he  camped  here,  and  we've 
seen  to  him  as  best  we  could." 

Rita  was  dumb,  half  with  amazement,  half 
with  mortification.  How  was  it  possible  that 
she  had  been  so  stupid?  Heard  of  Captain 
Jack  ?  where  were  her  wits  ?  the  daring  guer- 
rilla leader,  the  pride  of  the  Cuban  bands,  the 
terror  of  all  Spaniards  in  that  part  of  the 
island.  Why,  he  was  one  of  her  pet  heroes  ; 
only —  only  she  had  fancied  him  so  utterly  dif- 
ferent. The  Captain  Jack  of  her  fancy  was  a 
gigantic  person,  with  blue-black  curls,  with 
eyes  like  wells  of  black  light  (she  had  been 
fond  of  this  bit  of  description,  and  often  re- 
peated it  to  herself),  a  superb  moustache,  and 
a  nose  absolutely  Grecian,  like  the  Santillo 
nose  of  tender  memory.  This  half- Yankee 
stripling,  blue-eyed,  with  a  nose  that  —  yes, 
that  actually  turned  up  a  little,  and  the 
merest   feather  of  brown  laid  on  his  upper 


166  KITA. 

lip  —  how  could  she  or  any  one  suppose  this 
to  be  the  famous  cavalry  leader? 

Kita  blushed  scarlet  with  distress^  as  she 
remembered  her  bearing,  which  she  had  tried 
to  make  as  scornful  as  was  compatible  with 
good  manners.  She  had  meant,  had  done  her 
best,  to  show  him  that  she  thought  lightly  of 
a  Cuban  soldier  who,  for  what  reason  soever, 
proclaimed  himself  without  apology  to  be  "  in 
hiding."  To  be  sure,  he  had  not  seemed  to 
feel  the  rebuke  as  she  had  expected  he  would. 
Once  or  twice  she  had  caught  that  look  of 
Uncle  John  in  his  eyes ;  the  laughing,  critical, 
yet  kindly  scrutiny  that  always  made  her 
feel  like  a  little  girl,  and  a  silly  girl  at  that. 
Was  that  what  she  had  seemed  to  Captain 
Delmonte  ?  Of  course  it  was.  She  had  had 
the  great,  the  crowning  opportunity  of  her 
life,  of  doing  homage  to  a  real  hero  (she 
forgot  good  General  Sevillo,  who  had  been  a 
hero  in  a  quiet  and  business-like  way  for 
sixty  years),  and  she  had  lost  the  opportunity. 


manuela's  opportunity.  167 

It  was  a  very  subdued  Rita  who  re- 
turned to  the  house  that  evening.  At  the 
edge  of  the  ;wood  they  were  met  by  Don 
Annunzio,  who  stood  as  before^  smoking  his 
long  black  cigar^  and  scrutinising  the  road 
and  the  surrounding  country.  A  wave  of 
his  hand  told  them  that  all  was  well,  and 
they  stepped  quickly  across  the  road,  and  in 
another  minute  were  on  the  verandah. 

Don  Annunzio  followed  them  with  an  elab- 
orate air  of  indifference ;  but  once  seated  in 
his  great  chair,  he  began  to  speak  eagerly, 
gesticulating  with  his  cigar. 

"  Dios  !  Prudencia,  you  had  an  inspiration 
from  heaven  this  day.  What  I  have  been 
through !  the  sole  comfort  is  that  I  have  lost 
twenty  pounds  at  least,  from  sheer  anxiety. 
Imagine  that  you  had  not  been  gone  an  hour, 
when  up  they  ride,  the  guerrilla  that  was  re- 
ported to  us  yesterday.  At  their  head,  that 
pestiferous  Col.  Diego  Moreno.  He  dis- 
mounts, demands  coffee,  bananas,  what  there 


168  RITA. 

is.  I  go  to  get  them  ;  and,  the  saints  aiding 
me,  I  meet  in  the  face  the  pretty  Manuela. 
Another  instant,  and  she  would  have  been  on 
the  verandah,  would  have  been  seen  by  these 
swine,  female  curiosity  having  led  her  to 
imagine  a  necessary  errand  in  that  direc- 
tion. I  seize  this  charming  child  by  the 
shoulders,  I  push  her  into  her  room.  I  tell 
her,  '  Thou  hast  a  dangerous  fever.  Go  to 
thy  bed  on  the  instant,  it  is  a  matter  of 
thy  life.' 

"My  countenance  is  such  that  she  obeys 
without  a  word.  She  is  an  admirable  crea- 
ture !     Beauty,  in  the  female  sex  —  " 

"Do  go  on,  Noonsey,"  said  his  wife,  good- 
naturedly,  "and  never  mind  about  beauty 
now.  Land  knows  we  have  got  other  things 
to  think  about." 

"  It  is  true,  it  is  true,  my  own ! "  replied 
the  amiable  fat  man.  "I  return  to  the 
verandah.  This  man  is  striding  up  and 
down,  cutting   at   my   poor   vines   with   his 


manuela's  opportunity.  169 

apoplexy  of  a  whip.  He  calls  me ;  I  stand 
before  him  thus,  civil  but  erect. 

" '  Have  you  any  strangers  here,  Don 
Annunzio  ? ' 

"  '  No,  Senor  Colonel.' 

"  It  is  true,  senorita.  To  make  a  stranger 
of  you,  so  friendly,  so  gracious  —  the  thought 
is  intolerable. 

"  He  approaches,  he  regards  me  fixedly. 

"  '  A  young  lady,  Senorita  Montf ort,  and 
her  maid,  escaped  from  the  carriage  of  her 
stepmother,  the  honourable  Senora  Montfort, 
while  on  the  way  to  the  convent  of  the  White 
Sisters,  ten  days  ago.  A  man  of  my  com- 
mand was  taken  by  these  hill-cats  of  Mambis, 
and  carried  to  a  camp  in  this  neighbourhood. 
He  escaped,  and  reported  to  me  that  a  young 
lady  and  her  attendant  were  in  the  camp. 
I  raided  the  place  yesterday.' 

^^^With  success,  who  can  doubt?'  I  said. 
Civility  may  be  used  even  to  the  devil,  whom 
this  officer  strongly  resembled. 


170  RITA. 

"  He  stamped  his  feet,  he  ground  his  teeth, 
fire  flashed  from  his  eyes.  '  They  were 
gone ! '  he  said.  '  They  had  been  gone 
but  a  few  hours,  for  the  fires  were  still  burn- 
ing, but  no  trace  of  them  was  to  be  found. 
I  found,  however,  in  a  deserted  -  raiicho^  — 
this ! '  and  he  held  up  a  delicate  comb  of 
tortoise-shell." 

"  My  side-comb  !  "  cried  Rita.  "  I  won- 
dered where  I  had  lost  it.  Go  on,  pray,  Don 
Annunzio." 

''  He  questioned  me  again,  this  colonel,  on 
whom  may  the  saints  send  a  lingering  disease. 
I  can  swear  that  there  is  no  young  lady  in 
the  house  ?  but  assuredly,  I  can,  and  do  swear 
it,  with  all  earnestness.  He  whistles,  and 
swears  also  —  in  a  different  manner.  He 
says  J  ^I  must  search  the  house.  This  is  an 
important  matter.  A  large  reward  is  offered 
by  the  Senora  Montfort  for  the  discovery  of 
this  young  lady.' 

^^^  Search    every   rat-hole,   my   colonel,'   I 


manuela's  opportunity.  171 

reply ;  '  but  first  take  your  coffee,  which  is 
ready  at  this  moment.' 

"  In  effect,  Antonia  arrives  at  the  instant 
with  the  tray.  While  she  is  serving  him,  I 
find  time  to  slip  with  the  agility  of  the  ser- 
pent into  the  passage,  and  turn  the  handle 
of  the  bedroom  door.  '  Spotted  fever ! '  I 
cry  through  the  crack ;  and  am  back  at  my 
post  before  the  colonel  could  see  round  An- 
tonia's  broad  back.  Good!  he  drinks  his 
coffee.  He  devours  your  cakes,  my  Pruden- 
cia,  keeping  his  eye  on  me  all  the  time,  and 
plying  me  with  questions.  I  tell  him  all  is 
well  with  us,  except  the  sickness. 

" '  How  then  ?  what  sickness  ? ' 

" '  A  servant  is  ill  with  fever,'  I  say.  '  We 
hope  that  it  will  not  spread  through  the 
house ;  it  is  a  bad  time  for  fever.'  I  see  he 
does  not  like  that,  he  frowns,  he  mutters 
maledictions.  I  profess  myself  ready  to  con- 
duct him  through  my  poor  premises ;  I  lead 
him  through  the  parlour,  which  he  had  not 


172  RITA. 

sense  to  admire,  to  the  kitchen,  to  our  own 
apartment,  my  cherished  one.  All  the  time 
my  heart  flutters  like  a  wounded  dove.  I 
cry  in  my  soul,  ^AU  depends  on  the  wit  of 
that  child.  If  she  had  but  gone  with  Pru- 
dencia  to  the  forest ! ' 

"  Finally  there  is  no  escape,  we  must  pass 
the  door.  I  stop  before  it.  '  Open ! '  •  says 
the  colonel. 

" '  Your  Excellency  will  observe,'  I  say, 
Hhat  there  is  a  dangerous  case  of  spotted 
fever  in  this  room.' 

"  He  turns  white,  then  black.  He  pulls 
his  moustache,  which  resembles  a  mattress. 

"  At  last  '  How  do  I  know  ? '  he  cries ; 
'  You  may  be  lying !  all  Cubans  are  liars. 
The  girl  may  be   in  this  room ! ' 

"  I  throw  open  the  door  and  step  back,  my 
heart  in  my  mouth,  my  eyes  flinging  them- 
selves into  the  apartment.  Heavens !  what  do 
we  see  ?  a  hideous  face  projects  itself  from  the 
bed.     Red  —  black  —  a  face  from  the  pit !    A 


%-.>rs--^- 


<*'I  THROW  OPEN  THE  DOOR  AND  STEP  BACK,  MY 
HEART  IN  MY  MOUTH.'  " 


manuela's  oppoetunity.  173 

horrible  smell  is  in  our  nostrils  —  we  hear 
groans  —  enough  !  The  colonel  staggers  back, 
cursing.  I  close  the  door  and  follow  him  out 
to  the  verandah.  My  own  nerves  are  shaken, 
I  admit  it ;  it  was  a  thing  to  shatter  the 
soul.  Still  cursing,  he  mounts  his  horse,  and 
rides  away  with  his  troop.  I  see  them  go. 
They  carry  away  the  best  of  what  the  house 
holds,  but  what  of  that  ?  they  are  gone ! 

"  I  hasten,  as  well  as  my  infirmity  allows, 
to  the  chamber.     I  cry  '  Manuela,  is  it  thou  ? ' 

"  I  am  bidden  to  enter.  I  open  the  door, 
and  find  that  admirable  child  at  the  toilet- 
table,  washing  her  face  and  laughing  till 
the  tears  flow.  Already  half  of  her  pretty 
face  is  clean,  but  half  still  hideous  to 
behold. 

"^How  did  you  do  it?'  I  ask  her.  She 
laughs  more  merrily  than  before ;  if  you  have 
noticed,  she  has  a  laughter  of  silver  bells, 
this  maiden.  '  The  red  lip-salve,'  she  says, 
'  and  a  little  ink.     Have  no  fear^  Don  An- 


174  BITA. 

nunzio ;  it  was  you  who  discovered  the  fever, 
you  know.' 

"  ^  But  the  smell,  my  child  ?  there  must  be 
something  bad  here,  something  unhealthy;  a 
vile  smell ! ' 

'^  She  laughs  again,  this  child.  '  I  burned 
a  piece  of  tortoise-shell,'  she  says.  ^  Saint 
Ursula  forgive  me,  it  was  one  of  the  seno- 
rita's  side-combs,  but  there  was  nothing  else 
at  hand.' 

"  Thus  then,  senorita,  thus,  my  Prudencia, 
has  Manuela  virtually  saved  our  house  and 
ourselves.  Hasten  to  embrace  her !  I  have 
already  permitted  myself  the  salute  of  a 
father  upon  her  charming  cheek,  as  simple 
gratitude  enjoined  it." 

As  if  by  magic  —  could  she  have  been 
listening  in  the  passage  ?  —  Manuela  ap- 
peared, blushing  and  radiant.  Donna  Pru- 
dencia did  not  think  it  necessary  to  kiss 
her,  but  she  shook  her  warmly  by  the  hand, 
telling   her   that  she  was   a   good  girl,  and 


manuela's  opportunity.  175 

fit  to  be  a  Yankee,  a  compliment  which 
Manuela  hardly  appreciated.  As  for  Rita, 
she  kissed  the  girl  on  both  cheeks,  and  stood 
holding  her  hands,  gazing  at  her  with  wistful 
eyes. 

^^Ah,  Manuela,"  she  cried;  "I  must  not 
begrudge  it  to  you.  You  are  a  heroine ;  you 
have  had  the  opportunity,  and  you  knew 
how  to  take  it.  Daughter  of  Cuba,  your 
sister  blesses  you." 

Before  Manuela  could  reply,  Donna  Pru- 
dencia  broke  in.  '^  There  !  there  !  "  she  said. 
"  Come  down  off  your  high  horse.  Miss 
Margaritty,  there's  a  dear ;  and  help  me  to 
see  to  things.  Here's  Captain  Delmonty 
coming  to-night,  and  them  chicken-thieves 
of  Gringos  have  carried  off  every  living 
thing  there  was  to  eat  in  the  house." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

CAPTAIN   JACK. 

When  Jack  Delmonte  appeared,  late  in 
the  evening,  he  was  puzzled  at  the  change 
which  had  come  over  the  pretty  Grand  Duch- 
ess, as  he  had  mentally  nicknamed  Rita.  In 
the  afternoon  she  had  appeared,  he  could 
not  imagine  why,  to  regard  him  as  a  portion 
of  the  scum  of  the  earth.  He  thought  her 
extremely  pretty,  and  full  of  charm,  yet  he 
could  not  help  feeling  provoked,  in  spite  of 
his  amusement,  at  the  disdainful  curl  at  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  when  she  addressed 
him.  Now,  he  was  equally  at  a  loss  to 
understand  why  or  how  the  Grand  Duchess 
was  replaced  by  a  gentle  and  tender- voiced 
maiden,  who  looked  up  at  him  from  under 
her  long  curved  lashes  with  timid  and  dep- 

176 


CAPTAra  JACK.  177 

recatory  glances.  She  insisted  on  mixing 
his  granita  herself,  and  brought  it  in  the 
one  valuable  cup  Marm  Prudence  possessed, 
a  beautiful  old  bit  of  Lowestoft.  She  begged 
to  hear  from  his  own  lips  about  his  last  raid 
—  about  all  his  raids.  She  had  heard  about 
some  of  them;  the  one  where  he  had  swum 
the  river  under  fire  to  rescue  the  little  lame 
boy;  the  other,  when  he  had  chased  five 
Spaniards  for  half  a  mile,  with  no  other 
weapon  than  a  banana  pointed  at  full  cock. 
She  even  knew  of  some  exploits  that  he 
had  never  heard  of;  and  the  honest  captain 
found  himself  blushing  under  his  tan,  and 
finally  changed  the  subject  by  main  force. 
It  was  very  pleasant,  of  course,  to  have  this 
lovely  creature  hanging  on  his  words,  and 
supplementing  them  with  others  of  her  own, 
only  too  extravagantly  laudatory ;  but  a  fel- 
low must  tell  the  truth ;  and  —  and  after  all, 
what  was  the  meaning  of  it  ?  She  wouldn't 
look  at  him,  three  hours  ago. 


178  RITA. 

Had  they  had  a  gay  winter  in  Havana? 
he  asked.  He  hadn't  been  to  a  dance  for 
forty  years.  Was  she  fond  of  dancing?  of 
course  she  was.  What  a  pity  they  couldn't 
—  here  he  happened  to  glance  at  Eita's  black 
dress^  and  stopped  short. 

''  Miss  Montf ort,  I  beg  your  pardon !  It 
was  very  stupid  of  me.  I  ran  on  without 
thinking.  You  are  in  mourning.  What  a 
brute  I  am !  " 

The  tears  had  gathered  in  Rita's  eyes,  but 
now  she  smiled  through  them.  ^^It  is  six 
months  since  my  father  died/'  she  said. 
"  He  was  the  kindest  of  fathers,  though, 
alas  !  Spanish  in  his  sympathies." 

"  Your  mother  ? "  hazarded  Jack,  full  of 
sjnnpathy. 

^^  My  mother  died  three  years  ago.  My 
stepmother  — "  then  followed  the  tale  of 
her  persecution,  her  escape,  and  subsequent 
adventures.  Captain  Jack  was  delighted 
with  the  story. 


CAPTAm   JACK.  179 

"  Hurrah  !  "  he  exclaimed.  ''  That  was 
tremendously  plucky,  you  know,  going  off 
in  that  way.  That  was  fine !  and  you  got 
to  your  brother  all  right  ?  I  wonder  —  is  he 
—  are  you  any  relation  of  Carlos  Montfort? 
Not  his  sister?  You  don't  mean  it.  Why, 
I  was  at  school  with  Carlos,  the  first  school 
I  ever  went  to.  An  old  priest  kept  it,  in 
Plaza  Nero.  Carlos  was  a  good  fellow,  and 
gave  me  the  biggest  licking  once —  I'm 
very  glad  we  met,  Miss  Montfort.  And  — 
I  don't  mean  to  be  impertinent,  I'm  sure  you 
know  that  j  but  —  what  are  you  going  to  do 
now  ?  " 

Alas !  Rita  did  not  know.  "  I  thought  I 
was  safe  here,"  she  said.  "  I  was  to  stay 
here  with  these  good  people  till  word  came 
from  my  uncle  in  the  States,  or  till  there 
was  a  good  escort  that  might  take  me  to 
some  port  whence  I  could  sail  to  New  York. 
Now  —  I  do  not  know ;  I  begin  to  tremble, 
Senor  Delmonte.     To-day,  while  Donna  Pru- 


180  EITA. 

dencia  and  I  were  in  the  forest^  a  Spanish 
guerrilla  came  here,  looking  for  me.  Don 
Diego  Moreno  was  in  command.  He  is  a 
friend  of  my  stepmother's.  I  know  him, 
a  cold,  hateful  man.  If  he  had  found  me  —  " 
she  shuddered. 

"I  know  Diego  Moreno,  too/'  said  Del- 
montej  and  his  brow  darkened.  "He  is 
not  fit  to  look  at  you,  much  less  to  speak 
to  you.  Never  mind.  Miss  Montfort !  don't 
be  afraid;  we'll  manage  somehow.  If  no 
better  way  turns  up,  I'll  take  you  to  Puerto 
Blanco  myself.  Trouble  is,  these  fellows  are 
rather  down  on  me  just  now;  but  we'll 
manage  somehow,  never  fear !  Hark  !  what's 
that?" 

He  leaned  forward,  listening  intently.  A 
faint  sound  was  heard,  hardly  more  than  a 
breathing.  Some  night-bird,  was  it?  It 
came  from  the  fringe  of  forest  across  the 
road.  Again  it  sounded,  two  notes,  a  long 
and  a  short  one,  soft  and  plaintive.     A  bird, 


CAPTAIN   JACK.  181 

certainly,  thought  Rita.  She  started  as  Cap- 
tain Delmonte  imitated  the  call,  repeating 
it   twice. 

^^Juan/'  he  said,  briefly.  "Reporting  for 
orders.     Here  he  conies !  " 

A  burly  figure  crossed  the  road  in  three 
strides.  Three  more  brought  him  to  the 
verandah,  where  he  saluted  and  stood  at 
attention. 

"  Well,  Juan,  where  are  the  rest  of  you  ?  " 

"In  the  usual  place,  Senor  Captain,  four 
miles  from  here,"  said  the  orderly.  "  I  have 
brought  Aquila;  he  is  here  in  the  thicket, 
my  own  horse  also.    Will  you  ride  to-night  ? " 

"To-morrow,  at  daybreak,  Juan.  I  have 
promised  Seiiora  Carreno  to  sleep  one  night 
under  her  roof,  and  convince  her  that  my  foot 
is  entirely  well.  Bring  Aquila  into  the  court- 
yard.    All  is  quiet  in  the  neighbourhood  ?  " 

"  All  quiet,  Senor  Captain.  Good ;  I  bring 
Aquila  and  return  to  the  troop.  You  will  be 
with  us,  then,  before  sunrise  ?  " 


182  RITA. 

"  Before  sunrise  without  fail/'  said  Captain 
Jack.     "  Buenos  noches,  Juanito  !  " 

The  trooper  saluted  again,  and  slipped  back 
across  the  road ;  next  moment  he  reappeared 
leading  a  long,  lean,  brown  horse,  who  walked 
as  if  he  were  treading  on  eggshells.  They 
passed  into  the  courtyard  and  were  seen  no 
more,  Juan  making  his  way  back  to  .the 
thicket  by  some  unseen  path. 

"  You  do  not  stay  with  us  through  the  day 
then,  Mr.  Delmonte  ?   I  am  sorry!"  said  Rita. 

"  I  wish  I  could,  indeed  I  do ;  but  I  must 
get  to  my  fellows  as  soon  as  possible.  I  shall 
come  back,  though,  in  a  day  or  two,  and  put 
myself  and  my  troop  at  your  orders.  Miss 
Montfort.  How  would  you  like  to  lead  a 
troop,  like  Madame  Hernandez  ? ''  He  laughed, 
but  Rita's  eyes  flashed. 

"But  I  would  die  to  do  it!"  she  cried. 
"  Ah !  Seiior  Delmonte,  once  to  fight  for  my 
country,  and  then  to  die  —  that  is  my  ambi- 
tion." 


CAPTAIN   JACK.  183 

"  And  you'd  do  it  well,  I  am  sure ! "  said 
Delmonte,  warmly;  "the  fighting  part,  I 
mean.  But  nobody  would  let  you  die,  Miss 
Montfort,  it  would  spoil  the  prospect." 

He  spoke  lightly,  for  heroics  embarrassed 
him,  as  they  did  Carlos. 

Soon  after.  Donna  Prudencia  appeared,  with 
bedroom  candles,  aiid  stood  looking  benevo- 
lently at  the  two  young  people. 

"  I  expect  you've  been  having  a  good  visit," 
she  said.  "  Well,  there's  an  end  to  all,  and 
it's  past  ten  o'clock,  Miss  Margaritty." 

Eita  rose  with  some  reluctance;  nor  did 
Captain  Delmonte  seem  enthusiastic  on  the 
subject  of  going  to  bed. 

"  Such  a  beautiful  night !  "  he  said.  "  Must 
you  go,  Miss  Montfort  ?  I  mustn't  keep  you 
up,  of  course.  Good-bye,  then,  for  a  few  days  ! 
I  shall  be  gone  before  daybreak.  I'm  very 
glad  we  have  met." 

They  shook  hands  heartily.  Rita  somehow 
did  not  find  words  so  readily  as  usual.     "1 


184  RITA. 

too  am  glad/'  she  said.  "  It  is  something  — 
I  have  always  wished  to  meet  the  '  Star  of 
Horsemen ! ' " 

"  Oh,  please  don't ! "  cried  Jack,  in  distress. 
"  That  was  just  a  joke  of  those  idiots  of  mine. 
Good  gracious!  if  you  go  to  calling  names, 
Miss  Montf  ort,  I  shall  not  dare  to  come  back 
again.     Good  night !  " 

It  was  long  before  Rita  could  sleep.  She 
lay  with  wide-open  eyes,  conjuring  up  one 
scene  after  another,  in  all  of  which  Captain 
Delmonte  played  the  hero's  part,  and  she  the 
heroine's.  He  was  rescuing  her  single-handed 
from  a  regiment  of  Spaniards ;  they  were  gal- 
loping together  at  the  head  of  a  troop,  driving 
the  Gringos  like  sheep  before  them.  Or,  he 
was  wounded  on  the  field  of  battle,  and  she  was 
kneeling  beside  him,  holding  water  to  his  lips, 
and  blessing  the  good  Cuban  surgeon  who  had 
taught  her  bandaging  in  the  camp  among  the 
hills.  At  length,  hero  and  heroine,  Cuban  and 
Spaniard,  faded  away,  and  she  slept  peacefully. 


CAPTAIN   JACK.  185 

^^What  is  it?  what  is  the  matter?"  Rita 
sprang  up  in  her  bed  and  listened.  The  sound 
that  had  awakened  her  was  repeated  :  a  knock 
at  the  door ;  a  voice,  low  but  imperative ;  the 
voice  of  Jack  Delmonte. 

''  Miss  Montf ort !  are  you  awake  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  what  has  happened  ?  " 

"  The  Gringos  !  Dress  yourself  quickly, 
and  come  out.     You  can  dress  in  the  dark  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  oh,  yes  !  I  will  come.  Manuela ! 
wake !  wake !  don't  speak,  but  dress  your- 
self; the  Spaniards  are  here." 

Hastily,  with  trembling  hands,  the  two  girls 
put  on  their  clothes.  No  thought  now  of 
how  or  what;  anything  to  cover  them,  and 
that  quickly.  They  hurried  out  into  the 
passage ;  Delmonte  stood  there,  carbine  in 
hand.  He  spoke  almost  in  a  whisper,  yet 
every  word  fell  clearly  on  their  strained 
ears. 

"  It's  not  Moreno ;  it's  Velaya's  guerrilla  : 
we  must  get  away  before  they  fire  the  house. 


186  KITA. 

Give  me  your  hand,  Miss  Montf ort ;  you  will 
be  quiet,  I  know.     Your  maid  ?  " 

"  Manuela,  you  will  not  speak !  " 

"  No,  seiiorita !  "  said  poor  Manuela,  with  a 
stifled  sob. 

^^My  horse  is  ready  saddled,"  Delmonte 
went  on.'  "  If  I  can  get  you  away  before  they 
see  us  —  " 

"  Me !  but  what  will  become  of  the  others  ?  " 
cried  Rita,  under  her  breath.  "I  cannot 
desert  Manuela  and  Marm  Prudence  —  Donna 
Prudencia." 

"I  am  going  to  save  you,"  said  Jack  Del- 
monte, quietly.  "If  for  no  other  reason,  I 
have  just  given  my  word  to  Donna  Pruden- 
cia.  The  rest  —  I'll  get  back  as  soon  as  I 
can,  that's  all  I  can  say.    Follow  me  !  hark  !  " 

A  shot  rang  out;  another,  and  another. 
A  hubbub  of  voices  rose  within  and  without 
the  house ;  and  at  the  same  instant  a  bright 
light  sprang  up,  and  they  saw  each  other's 
faces. 


CAPTAIN   JACK.  187 

Delmonte  ground  his  teeth.  ^^Wait!'' 
he  said ;  and  going  a  little  way  along  the 
passage,  he  peered  from  a  window.  The 
verandah  swarmed  with  armed  men.  The 
door  was  locked  and  barred,  but  they  were 
smashing  the  window-shutters  with  the  butts 
of  their  carbines.  He  glanced  along  the 
passage.  Inside  the  door  stood  Don  Annun- 
zio,  in  his  vast  white  pajamas,  firing  com- 
posedly through  a  wicket;  beside  him  his 
wife,  as  quietly  loading  and  handing  him 
the  weapons.  Behind  them  huddled  the 
few  house  and  farm  servants,  negroes  for 
the  most  part,  but  among  them  was  one 
intelligent-looking  young  Creole.  Singling 
him  out,  Delmonte  led  him  apart,  and 
pointed  to  Manuela.  "  Your  sister !  "  he 
said.     "  Your  life  for  hers." 

The  youth  nodded,  and  beckoned  the 
frightened  girl  to  stand  beside  him.  Eita 
saw  no  more,  for  Delmonte,  grasping  her 
hand   firmly,  led   her   through   the  winding 


188  RITA. 

passage  and  into  the  inner  courtyard.  Paus- 
ing a  moment  on  the  verandah^  they  looked 
through  the  archway  at  one  side,  through 
which  streamed  a  red  glare.  The  cane 
patch  was  on  fire,  and  blazing  fiercely. 
The  flames  tossed  and  leaped,  and  in 
front  of  them  men  were  running  with 
torches,  setting  fire  to  sheds  and  out- 
houses. Their  shouts,  the  crackling  and 
hissing  of  the  flames,  the  shots  and  cries 
from  the  front  of  the  house,  turned  the 
quiet  night  wild  with  horror.  A  crash 
behind  them  told  that  the  front  door  had 
yielded. 

"  It's  run  for  it,  now ! "  said  Delmonte, 
quietly.     "  Now,  then,  child,  —  quick !  " 

A  few  steps,  and  they  were  beside  the 
brown  horse,  standing  saddled  and  bridled, 
and  already  quivering  and  straining  to  be 
off.  Delmonte  lifted  Rita  in  his  arms, — 
no  time  now  for  courtly  mounting,  —  then 
sprang  to  the  saddle  before  her.     He  spoke 


CAPTAIN   JACK.  189 

to  the  horse,  who  stood  trembling,  but  made 
no  motion  to  advance. 

^^Aquila,  softly  past  the  gate  —  then  for 
life !  good  boy !  Miss  Montf ort,  put  your 
arms  around  me,  and  hold  fast.  Don't  let 
go  unless  I  drop;  then  try  to  catch  the 
reins,  and  give  him  his  head.  He  knows 
the  way." 

Softly,  slowly,  Aquila  crept  to  the  arch- 
way. He  might  have  been  shod  with  velvet 
for  any  sound  he  made.  Could  they  get 
away  unseen?  The  men  with  the  torches 
were  busy  at  their  horrid  work;  they  could 
not  be  seen  yet  from  the  front  of  the  house. 
The  horse  crept  forward,  silent  as  a  phan- 
tom. They  were  clear  of  the  archway. 
"  Now  !  "  whispered  Delmonte.  "  For  life, 
Aquila ! "  and  Aquila  went,  for  life. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

FOE   LIFE. 

^^If  we  can  put  the  fire  between  us  and 
them/'  said  Captain  Jack,  "  we  shall '  get 
off." 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  they  might 
do  it.  Already  they  saw  the  road  before 
them,  the  sand  glowing  red  in  the  firelight. 
A  few  more  strides  —  Just  then,  a  Spanish 
soldier  came  running  round  the  corner  of 
the  burning  cane-patch,  whirling  his  blazing 
torch.  He  saw  them,  and  raised  a  shout. 
"  Alerta  !  alerta  !  fugitives  !  after  them  ! 
shoot   down   the   Mambi   dogs ! " 

There  was  a  rush  to  the  corner  where 
a  score  of  horses  stood  tethered  to  the 
fence.  A  dozen  men  leaped  into  the  saddle 
and   came   thundering   in    pursuit.      Aquila 

190 


FOR  LIFE.  191 

gave  one  glance  back;  then  stretched  his 
long  lean  neck,  and  settled  into  a  gallop. 

Before  them  the  road  lay  straight  for 
some  distance,  red  here  in  the  crimson  light, 
further  on  white  under  a  late  moon.  On 
one  side  the  woods  rose  black  and  still,  on 
the  other  lay  open  fields  crossed  here  and 
there  by  barbed  wire  fences.  No  living 
creature  was  to  be  seen  on  the  road.  No 
sound  was  heard  save  the  muffled  beat 
of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the  sand,  and  be- 
hind, the  shouts  and  cries  of  their  pursuers. 
Were  they  growing  louder,  those  shouts  ? 
Were  they  gaining,  or  was  the  distance  be- 
tween them  widening?  Rita  turned  her 
head  once  to  look  back.  "  I  wouldn't  do 
that!"  said  Delmonte,  quietly.  "Do  you 
mind.  Miss  Montfort,  if  I  swing  you  round 
in  front  of  me  ?  Don't  be  alarmed,  Aquila  is 
all  right." 

Before  Rita  could  speak,  he  had  dropped 
the  reins  on  the  horse's  neck,  and  lifted  her 


192  RITA. 

bodily  round  to  the  peak  of  the  saddle  before 
him.  "  I'm  sorry  !  "  he  said,  apologetically. 
"  I  fear  it  is  very  uncomfortable ;  but  —  I 
can  —  a  —  manage  better,  don't  you  see  ?  " 
But  to  himself  he  was  saying,  "  Lucky  I  got 
that  done  before  the  beggars  began  to  shoot. 
Now  they  may  fire  all  they  like.  Stupid 
duffer  I  was,  not  to  start  right." 

He  had  felt  the  girl's  light  figure  quiver 
as  he  lifted  her. 

^^  Don't  be  frightened.  Miss  Montfort,"  he 
said  again.  "  There  isn't  a  horse  in  the 
country  that  can  touch  Aquila  when  he  is 
roused." 

"  I  am  not  frightened,"  said  Eita.  "  I  am 
—  excited,  I  suppose.  It  is  like  riding  on 
wind,  isn't  it?" 

It  was  true  that  she  felt  no  fear ;  neither 
did  she  realise  the  peril  of  their  position.  It 
was  one  of  the  dreams  come  true,  that  was 
all.  She  was  riding  with  Delmonte,  with  the 
Star  of  Horsemen.     He  was  saving  her  life. 


FOE   LIFE.  193 

They  had  ridden  so  before,  often  and  often ; 
only   now  — 

Pah!  a  short,  sharp  report  was  heard, 
and  a  little  dust  whiffed  up  on  the  road 
beside  them.  Pah!  pah!  another  puff  of 
dust,  and  splinters  flew  from  a  tree  just  be- 
yond them.  Aquila  twitched  his  ears  and 
stretched  his  long  neck,  and  they  felt  the 
stride  quicken  under  them.  The  road  rushed 
by ;  they  were  half-way  to  the  turn. 

"Would  you  like  to  hold  the  reins  for  a 
bit  ? "  asked  Delmonte.  "  It  isn't  really 
necessary,  but  —  thanks !  that's  very  nice." 

What  was  he  doing  ?  He  had  turned  half 
round  in  the  saddle  \  something  touched  her 
hair — the  butt  of  his  carbine.  "  I  heg  your 
pardon  !  "  said  Captain  Jack.  "  I  am  very 
clumsy,  I  fear." 

Crack  !  went  the  carbine.  Eita's  ears  rang 
with  the  noise;  she  held  the  reins  mechan- 
ically, only  half -conscious  of  herself.  Pah! 
pah  !  and  again  crack  !    The  blue  rifle-smoke 


194  KITA. 

was  in  her  eyes  and  nostrils,  the  Mauser  bul- 
lets pattered  like  hail  on  the  road ;  and  still 
Aquila  galloped  on,  never  turning  his  head, 
never  slackening  his  mighty  stride,  and  still 
the  road  rushed  by,  and  the  turn  by  the  hill 
grew  nearer  —  nearer  — 

Pah  !  Rita  felt  her  companion  wince.  His 
left  arm  relaxed  its  hold  and  dropped  at  his 
side.  With  his  right  hand  he  carefully 
replaced  his  carbine  in  its  sling. 

"  For  life,  Aquila  ! "  he  said  softly,  in  Span- 
ish ;  and  once  more  Aquila  gathered  his  great 
limbs  under  him,  and  once  more  the  terrible 
pace  quickened. 

A  stone  ?  a  hole  in  the  road  ?  who  knows  ? 
In  a  moment  they  were  all  down,  horse  and 
riders  flung  in  a  heap  together.  The  horse 
struggled  to  his  knees,  then  fell  again. 
He  screamed,  an  agonising  sound,  that  in 
Rita's  excited  mind  seemed  to  mingle  with 
the  smoke  and  the  dust  in  a  cloud  of  horror. 
Every  moment  she  expected  to  feel  the  iron 


FOR   LIFE.  195 

hoofs  crashing  into  her,  as  the  frenzied  crea- 
ture struggled  to  regain  his  footing. 

Delmonte  had  sprung  clear,  and  in  an 
instant  he  was  at  Rita's  side,  raising  her. 
"  You  are  hurt  ?  no  ?  good !  keep  behind  me, 
please." 

He  went  to  the  horse,  and  tried  to  lift  him, 
bent  to  examine  him,  and  then  shook  his 
head.  Aquila  would  not  rise  again;  his  leg 
was  shattered.  Delmonte  straightened  him- 
self and  looked  about  him.  If  this  had  hap- 
pened a  hundred,  fifty  yards  back !  but  now 
the  woods  were  gone,  and  on  either  hand 
stretched  a  bare  savannah,  broken  only  by 
the  hateful  barbed  wire  fences.  He  drew  his 
revolver  quietly.  The  healthy  brown  of  his 
face  had  gone  gray ;  his  eyes  were  like  blue 
steel.  He  looked  at  Eita,  and  met  her  eyes 
fixed  on  him  in  a  mute  anguish  of  entreaty. 

"  Have  no  fear  !  "  he  said.  "  It  shall  be  as 
it  would  with  my  own  sister.  I  know  these 
men  ;  they  shall  not  touch  you  alive." 


196  RITA. 

He  bent  once  more  over  the  struggling 
beast,  and  even  in  his  agony  Aquila  knew 
his  master,  and  turned  his  eyes  lovingly 
toward  him,  expecting  help ;  and  help  came. 

"  Good-bye,  lad !  "  The  pistol  cracked,  and 
the  tortured  limbs  sank  into  quiet. 

''  Lie  down  behind  him  !  "  Delmonte  com- 
manded.    "  So  !  now,  still." 

He  knelt  behind  the  dead  horse,  facing  the 
advancing  Spaniards.  The  revolver  cracked 
again,  and  the  foremost  horseman  dropped, 
shot  through  the  head.  The  troop  was  now 
close  upon  them;  Rita  could  see  the  fierce 
faces,  and  the  gleam  of  their  wolfish  teeth. 
Delmonte  fired  again,  and  another  man 
dropped,  but  still  the  rest  came  on.  There 
was  no  help,  then  ? 

Delmonte  looked  at  Rita;  she  closed  her 
eyes,  expecting  death.  The  air  was  full  of 
cries  and  curses.  But  —  what  other  sound 
was  that  ?  Not  from  before,  but  behind  them 
—  round  the  turn  of  the  road  —  some  one  was 


FOR   LIFE.  197 

Singing !       In   all   the   hurry   of  her  flying 
thoughts  Rita  steadied  herself  to  listen. 

"  For  it's  whoop-la !  whoop ! 
Git  along,  my  little  dogies ; 
For  Wyoming  shall  be  your  new  home !  — 

"What  in  the  Rockies  is  going  on  here, 
anyhow  ?  " 

Rita  turned  her  head.  A  horseman  had 
come  around  the  bend,  and  checked  his  horse, 
looking  at  the  scene  before  him.  A  giant 
rider  on  a  giant  horse.  The  moon  shone  on 
his  brown  uniform,  his  slouched  felt  hat,  and 
the  carbine  laid  across  his  saddle-bow.  Under 
the  slouched  hat  looked  out  a  bronzed  face, 
grim  and  bearded,  lighted  by  eyes  blue  as 
Delmonte's  own. 

Rita  gave  one  glance.  "  Help !  "  she  cried, 
"■  America,  help  !  " 

"  America's  the  place  !  "  said  the  horseman. 
He  waved  his  hand  to  some  one  behind  him, 
then  put  his  horse  to  the  gallop.  Next  in- 
stant he  was  beside  them. 


198  KITA. 

Delmonte  started  to  his  feet,  revolver  in 
hand.  "  U.  S.  A.  ? ''  he  said.  "  You're  just 
in  time,  uncle.     I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

"  Always  like  to  be  on  time  at  a  party/' 
said  the  rough  rider,  levelling  his  carbine. 
"  My  fellows  are  —  in  short,  here  they  are  !  " 

There  was  a  scurry  of  hoofs,  a  shout,  and 
thirty  horsemen  swept  around  the  curve  and 
came  racing  up. 

"  What's  up,  Cap'n  Jim  ? "  cried  one. 
"  Have  we  lost  the  fun  ?  Gringos,  eh  ? 
hooray ! " 

The  Spaniards  had  checked  their  horses. 
Four  of  them  lay  dead  in  the  road,  and  sev- 
eral others  were  wounded.  At  sight  of  the 
mounted  troop,  they  stopped  and  held  a 
hurried  consultation,  then  turned  their  horses 
and  rode  away. 

The  giant  looked  at  Delmonte.  "  Want  to 
follow  ? "  he  asked.  "  This  is  your  hand, 
comrade." 

"  I   want   a  horse !  "   said   Captain  Jack. 


FOE   LIFE.  199 

^^Miss  Montfort/' — he  turned  to  Rita,  who 
had  risen  to  her  feet,  and  stood  pale  but 
quiet,  —  ^Hhese  are  our  own  good  country- 
men. If  I  leave  you  with  them  but  a  few 
moments  —  " 

"  Hold  on !  "  said  the  big  man.  ''  What 
did  you  call  the  young  lady  ? " 

Delmonte  stared.  "  This  is  Miss  Montfort/' 
he  said,  rather  formally. 

^^Not  Rita!"  cried  the  giant.  ^^ Pike's 
Peak  and  Glory  Gulch!  Don't  tell  me  it's 
Rita ! " 

^^Oh,  yes!  yes!"  cried  Rita,  running  for- 
ward with  outstretched  hands.  ^^It  is  —  I 
am !  and  you  —  oh,  I  know,  I  know.  You 
are  Peggy's  big  brother.  You  are  Cousin 
Jim ! " 

^^  That's  what  they  said  when  they  chris- 
tened me  ! "  said  Cousin  Jim. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MEETINGS   AND    GEEETINGS. 

It  was  no  time  for  explanations.  Jim 
Montfort  put  out  a  hand  like  a  pine  knot, 
and  gave  Rita's  fingers  a  huge  shake. 

'^  Glad  to  find  you,  cousin/'  he  said.  "  I've 
been  looking  for  you.  Now,  what's  up  over 
there?"  He  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the 
fire. 

"A  candelay'  said  Delmonte,  briefly.  ''1 
must  get  back;  there  are  women  there*.  If 
one  of  your  men  will  catch  me  that  horse  —  " 

"  But  you  are  wounded ! "  cried  Rita. 
"  Cousin,  he  is  shot  in  the  arm.  Do  not 
let  him  go  !  " 

Delmonte  laughed.  "  It's  nothing,  Miss 
Montfort,"  he  said ;  "  but  nothing  at  all,  I 
assure   you.      When  we   get  to    camp  you 

200 


MEETINGS   AND    GKEETINGS.  201 

shall  put  some  carbolic  acid  on  it,  and  tie  it 
up  for  me;  that's  field  practice  in  Cuba.  I 
shall  be  proud  to  be  your  first  field  patient." 
He  spoke  in  his  usual  laughing  way ;  but  sud- 
denly his  face  changed,  and  he  leaned  toward 
her  swiftly,  his  hand  on  the  horse's  mane.  "  I 
shall  never  forget  this  time  —  our  ride  to- 
gether/' he  said.  "  I  hope  you  will  not  forget 
either  —  please  ?  And  now,  Miss  Montf ort, 
I  have  no  further  right  over  you.  I  would 
have  done  my  best,  I  think  you  know  that ; 
but  —  I  must  give  you  into  your  cousin's 
protection.     You  will  remain  here  ?  " 

^'  Of  course  she  will !  "  said  Cousin  Jim,  who 
had  heard  only  the  last  words.  "  I'll  go  with 
you,  comrade.  Raynham,  Morton,  you  will 
mount  guard  by  the  lady." 

The  troopers  saluted,  and  raised  their 
hats  civilly  to  Rita,  inwardly  cursing  their 
luck.  Because  they  owned  the  next  ranch 
to  Jim  Montfort,  was  that  any  reason  why 
they    should    lose    all    the    fun?    and   why 


202  RITA. 

could  not  girls  stay  at  home  where  they 
belonged  ? 

But  Rita  herself  cried  out  and  clasped  her 
hands,  and  ran  to  her  cousin.  "  Oh,  Cousin 
Jim  —  Seiior  Delmonte  —  let  me  go  with  you ! 
Please,  please  let  me  go  back.  .  My  poor 
Manuela  —  Marm  Prudence  —  they  may  be 
hurt,  wounded.  There  can  be  no  danger  with 
all  these  brave  men.  Cousin,  I  have  been  in 
a  camp  hospital,  I  know  how  to  dress  wounds. 
I  can  be  quiet  —  Seiior  Delmonte,  tell  him  I 
can  be  quiet !  " 

She  looked  eagerly  at  Delmonte. 

'^1  can  tell  him  that  you  are  the  bravest 
girl  I  ever  saw/'  he  said.  ^^But,  you  have 
been  through  a  great  deal.  I  don't  like  to 
have  you  go  back  among  those  rascals." 

James  Montfort  stroked  his  brown  beard 
thoughtfully. 

"  Guess  it's  safe  enough,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  Guess  there's  enough  of  us  to  handle  'em. 
Don't  know  but  on  the  whole  she'll  be  better 


MEETINGS   AND    GREETINGS.  203 

off  with  US.  My  sister  Peggy  wouldn't  like 
to  miss  any  circus  there  was  going,  would 
she,  little  girl  ?  Catch  another  of  those 
beasts  for  the  lady.  Bill ! " 

Rita,  with  one  of  her  quick  gestures,  caught 
his  great  hand  in  both  hers.  "  Oh,  you  good 
cousin !  "  she  cried.  "  You  dear  cousin  !  You 
are  the  very  best  and  the  very  biggest  person 
in  the  world,  and  I  love  you." 

"  Well,  well,  well !  "  said  Cousin  Jim,  some- 
what embarrassed.  "  There,  there !  so  you 
shall,  my  dear  j  so  you  shall.  But  as  for 
being  big,  you  should  see  Lanky  'Liph  of 
Bone  Gulch.  Now  there  —  but  here  is  your 
horse,  missy." 

The  horses  of  the  dead  Spaniards  had  been 
circling  about  them,  more  or  less  shyly.  Two 
of  them  were  quickly  caught  by  the  rough 
riders,  and  Rita  and  Delmonte  mounted.  As 
they  did  so,  both  glanced  toward  the  spot 
where  lay  the  brave  horse  that  had  borne 
them  so  well. 


204  RITA. 

"  It  was  for  life  indeed,  Aquila ! "  said 
Captain  Jack,  softly.  His  eyes  met  Kita's, 
and  she  saw  the  brightness  of  tears  in  them. 
Next  moment  they  were  galloping  back  to 
the  residencia. 

They  came  only  just  in  time.  Not  ten 
minutes  had  passed  since  they  left  the  court- 
yard, but  in  that  time  the  savage  Spaniards 
had  done  their  work  well.  The  house  itself 
was  in  flames,  and  burning  fiercely.  Good 
Don  Annunzio  lay  dead,  carbine  in  hand, 
on  the  steps  of  his  ruined  home.  Beside  him 
lay  the  Creole  youth  in  whose  charge  Del- 
monte  had  left  Manuela.  The  lad  was  still 
alive,  for  as  Delmonte  bent  from  the  saddle 
above  him  he  raised  his  head. 

"  I  did  my  best,  my  captain !  "  he  said. 
"  They  were  too  many." 

^^ Where  are  they?"  asked  Delmonte  and 
Montfort  in  one  breath. 

The  boy  pointed  down  the  road ;  raised  his 
hand  to  salute,  and  fell  back,  dead. 


MEETINGS   AND    GREETINGS.  205 

Now  again  it  was  a  ride  for  life  —  not  their 
own  life  this  time.  Rita  had  clean  forgotten 
herself.  The  thought  of  her  faithful  friend 
and  servant  in  the  hands  of  the  merciless , 
Spaniards  turned  her  quick  blood  to  fire. 
She  galloped  steadily,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
cloud  of  dust  only  a  few  hundred  yards  ahead 
of  them,  which  told  where  the  enemy  was 
galloping,  too. 

Jim  Montfort  glanced  at  her,  and  nodded 
to  himself.  "  She'll  do ! "  he  said  in  his 
beard.  "  Montfort  grit's  good  grit,  and  she's 
got  it.     This  would  be  nuts  to  little  Peggy." 

Jack  Delmonte,  too,  looked  more  than  once 
at  the  slender  figure  riding  so  lightly  between 
him  and  the  big  rough  rider.  How  beautiful 
she  was !  He  had  not  realised  half  how  beau- 
tiful till  now.  What  nerve  !  what  steadiness  ! 
It  might  be  the  Reina  de  Cuha^  Donna  Her- 
nandez herself,  riding  to  victory. 

He  felt  an  unreasonable  jealousy  of  "  Cousin 
Jim."     Half  —  nay!    a   quarter   of   an   hour 


206  RITA. 

ago,  she  was  riding  with  him  ;  there  were  only 
they  two  in  the  world,  they  and  Aquila,  poor 
Aquila,  —  who  had  given  his  life  for  theirs. 
She  was  his  comrade  then,  his  charge,  his  — 
and  now  she  was  Miss  Montfort,  a  young 
lady  of  fortune  and  position,  under  charge 
of  her  cousin,  a  Yankee  captain  of  rough 
riders ;  and  he.  Jack  Delmonte,  was  —  noth- 
ing in  particular. 

As  he  was  thinking  these  thoughts,  Rita 
chanced  to  turn  her  head,  and  met  his  gaze 
fixed  earnestly  upon  her.  She  blushed  sud- 
denly and  deeply,  the  lovely  colour  rising  in 
a  wave  over  cheeks  and  forehead ;  then  turned 
her  head  sharply  away. 

"  Now  I  have  offended  her !  "  said  Jack. 
"  Idiot !  "  and  perhaps  he  was  not  very  wise. 

But  there  was  little  time  for  thinking  or 
blushing.  The  Spaniards,  seeing  Delmonte, 
whom  they  regarded  as  the  devil  in  person, 
descending  upon  them  in  company  with  a 
giant  and  an  army  (for  so  they  described  the 


MEETINGS   AND    aREETINGS.  207 

band  of  rough  riders  at  headquarters  next 
day)^  abandoned  their  prisoners.  The  Ameri- 
cans chased  them  for  a  mile  or  so,  killed 
three  or  four,  and,  as  they  reported,  "  scared 
the  rest  into  Kingdom  Come,"  leaving  them 
only  on  coming  to  a  thick  wood,  into  which 
the  Gringos,  leaping  from  their  horses,  van- 
ished, and  were  seen  no  more.  The  victors 
then  returned  to  the  forlorn  little  group  of 
women  and  negroes,  huddled  together  by  the 
roadside.  Rita  had  already  dismounted,  and 
had  Manuela  in  her  arms.  She  felt  her  all 
over,  hurrying  question  upon  question. 

"  My  child,  you  are  not  hurt  ?  not  wounded  ? 
these  ruffians  —  did  they  dare  to  touch  you  ? 
did  they  have  the  audacity  to  speak  to  you, 
Manuela?  Oh,  why  did  I  leave  you  ?  I  could 
not  help  it ;  you  saw  I  could  not  help  it. 
You  are  sure  you  have  no  hurt  ?  " 

"But,  positively,  senorita,"  said  Manuela. 
"See!  not  a  scratch  is  on  me.  They  —  one 
fellow  —  offered  to  tie  my  hands ;  I  scratched 


208  KITA. 

him  so  well  that  he  ran  away.  I  am  safe, 
safe  —  praise  be  to  all  saints^  to  our  Holy 
Lady,  and  the  Senor  Delmonte.  But  — 
poor  Cerito^  senorita  ?  what  of  him  ?  he 
was  with  us;  he  fought  like  a  lion.  I  saw 
him  fall  — " 

"  Poor  Cerito !  "  said  Rita,  gravely.  "  He 
was  a  brave,  brave  lad.  A  thousand  •  sons 
to  Cuba  like  him  !  " 

Donna  Prudencia  was  sitting  apart  on  a 
stone  by  the  roadside.  Rita  went  up  to  her, 
took  her  hand,  and  kissed  her  cheek.  The 
Yankee  woman  looked  kindly  at  her  and 
nodded  comprehension,  but  did  not  speak. 
Rita  stood  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  timidly 
stroking  the  brown  cheek  and  white  hair. 
Her  cousin  Margaret  came  into  her  mind. 
What  would  Margaret  say,  if  she  were  here  ? 
She  would  know  the  right  word,  she  always 
did. 

"Marm  Prudence,"  she  said,  presently,  ''  to 
have  the  memory  of  a  hero,  of  one  who  dies 


MEETINGS   AND    GKEETINGS.  209 

for  his  country,  —  that  is  something,  is  it  not  ? 
some  little  comfort  ?  " 

Marm  Prudence  did  not  answer  at  once. 

"Mebbe  so/'  she  said,  presently.  ^^Mebbe 
so,  Miss  Margaritty.  Noonzio  was  a  good 
man.  Yes'm,  IVe  lost  a  good  husband  and 
a  good  home !  A  good  husband  and  a  good 
home  !  "  she  repeated.  "  That's  all  there  is 
to  it,  I  expect."  Her  rugged  face  was  dis- 
turbed for  a  moment,  and  she  hid  it  in  her 
hands ;  when  she  looked  up,  she  was  her  own 
composed  self. 

''  And  what's  the  next  thing  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  Thank  you,  Cap'n  Delmonty,  I'm  feeling 
first-rate.  Don't  you  fret  about  me.  You 
done  all  you  could.  I'll  never  forget  what 
you  done.  Poor  husband's  last  words  before 
he  was  shot  was  thanking  the  Lord  Miss 
Margaritty  was  off  safe.  We  knew  we  could 
trust  her  with  you." 

"Indeed,"  said  honest  Delmonte,  "it  is  not 
me  you  must  thank.  Donna  Prudencia.     I  did 


210  RITA. 

what  I  could,  but  it  was  Captain  Montfort 
and  his  men  who  saved  both  her  life  and 
mine." 

He  told  the  story  briefly,  and  Marm  Pru- 
dence listened  with  interest.  "Well/'  she 
said,  "that  was  pretty  close,  wasn't  it? 
Anyway,  you  done  all  you  could,  Cap'n 
Jack,  and  nobody  can't  do  no  more.  And  he's 
Miss  Margaritty's  cousin,  you  say  ?  I  want 
to  know !  He's  big  enough  for  three,  ain't 
he?" 

Rita  laughed,  in  spite  of  herself.  She 
beckoned  to  Cousin  Jim,  who  came  up  and 
shook  hands  with  the  widow  with  grave  sym- 
pathy. But  he  seemed  preoccupied,  and,  while 
they  were  preparing  to  return  to  the  ruined 
farm,  he  was  pulling  his  big  beard  and  medi- 
tating with  a  puzzled  air. 

"  Look  here ! "  he  broke  out  at  last,  ad- 
dressing his  men.  "I've  been  wondering 
what  was  wrong.  I  couldn't  seem  to  round 
up,  somehow,  and  now  I've  got  it.     Where's 


MEETINGS    AND    GREETINGS.  211 

that  poor  old  Johnny  ?  I  left  him  with  yon 
when  I  rode  forward  to  reconnoitre." 

The  rough  riders  looked  at  one  another, 
and  hung  their  heads. 

"  Guess  he  must  have  dropped  behind/' 
said  Eaynham.  "  We  didn't  wait  long  after 
you  signalled  to  us  to  come  on.  We  —  came." 

"  That's  so  !  "  clamoured  the  rough  riders^, 
in  sheepish  chorus.  ^^We  came,  Cap'n  Jim. 
That's  a  fact !  " 

"  Well  —  that's  all  right !  "  said  Jim.  "  You 
might  have  brought  the  old  Johnny  along, 
though,  seems  to  me.  Two  of  you  ride  back 
and  get  him ;  you,  Bill,  and  Juckins.  If  he 
seems  used  up,  Juckins  can  carry  him,  pony 
and  all." 

Juckins,  a  huge  Calif  ornian,  second  only  to 
Montfort  in  stature,  chuckled,  and  rode  ofE 
with  Raynham  at  a  hand  gallop. 

Montfort  turned  to  Rita. 

^^I  haven't  had  time  to  tell  you  about  it 
before,"  he  said.      ^^  Cousin  Rita,  I've  been 


212  RITA. 

hunting  for  you  for  three  days.  We  met  an 
old  Johnny — an  old  gentleman,  I  should 
say  —  riding  about  on  a  pony,  for  all  the 
world  like  Yankee  Doodle.  He'd  got  lost, 
poor  old  duffer,  among  these  inferior  cross- 
roads, and  didn't  know  whether  he  was  in 
China  or  Oklahoma.  We  picked  him  up,  and, 
riding  along,  it  came  out  that  he  was  search- 
ing for  his  ward,  a  young  lady  who  had  run 
away  from  a  convent.  Ever  heard  of  such 
a  person,  missy  ?  He  had  started  out  alone, 
to  ride  about  Cuba  till  he  found  her.  Kind 
of  pocket  Don  Quixote,  about  five  foot  high, 
white  hair,  silk  clothes  5  highly  respectable 
Johnny." 

"  Don  Miguel !  "  cried  Rita.  "  Poor,  dear, 
good  Don  Miguel !  I  have  never  written  to 
him,  wicked  that  I  am.  Oh,  where  is  he, 
Cousin  Jim?" 

^^Come  to  ask  him,"  Jim  continued,  "it 
appeared  that  the  young  lady's  name  was 
Montfort.     Now,  I  had  just  had  a  letter  from 


MEETINGS    AND    GREETINGS.  213 

Uncle  John^  wanting  me  to  raise  the  island  to 
get  hold  of  you  and  ship  you  North  at  once. 
He  had  had  no  letters ;  was  alarmed,  you 
understand.  Laid  up  with  a  bad  knee,  or 
would  have  come  himself.  I  was  just  going 
to  start  back  to  the  city  in  search  of  you, 
when  up  comes  Don  Quixote.  When  he 
heard  I  was  your  cousin,  he  fell  into  my 
arms,  pony  and  all.  Give  you  my  word  he 
did  !  Almost  lost  him  in  my  waistcoat  pocket. 
I  cheered  him  up  a  bit,  and  we've  been  poking 
about  together  these  three  days,  looking  for 
General  Sevillo's  camp.  Thought  you  might 
be  there.  We  were  camping  by  the  roadside 
when  we  heard  your  firing.  Ah !  here  he 
comes  now! " 

The  rough  riders  came  back,  their  horses 
trotting  now,  instead  of  galloping.  Between 
them,  ambling  gently  along,  was  a  piebald 
pony  of  amiable  appearance,  and  on  the  pony 
sat  a  little  old  gentlemen  with  snow-white 
hair  and  a  face  as  mild  and  gentle  as  the 


214  RITA. 

pony's  own.  At  sight  of  Eita  running  to 
meet  him,  he  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  and 
checked  his  horse.  Next  moment  he  had 
dismounted,  and  had  her  in  his  arms,  sob- 
bing like  a  child. 

"  Dear  Donito  Miguelito ! "  cried  Rita. 
"  Forgive  me !  please  do  forgive  me,  for 
frightening  you.  I  could  not  go  to  the  con- 
vent, indeed  I  could  not.  I  am  a  wretch  to 
have  treated  you  so,  but  I  could  not  go  to 
that  place." 

"  Of  course  you  could  not,  my  child,"  said 
the  good  old  man.  "  Nunc  dimittiSy  Domine ! 
Now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace. 
Of  course  you  could  not." 

"  I  could  not  live  with  Concepcion ;  don't 
you  know  I  could  not,  Donito  Miguelito  ? " 

"The  thought  is  impossible,  my  Pearl. 
Speaking  with  all  possible  respect,  the  Senora 
Montf  ort,  though  high-born  and  accomplished, 
is  a  hysterical  wildcat.  You  did  well,  my 
child ;  you  did  extremely  well.      So  long  as  I 


MEETINGS   AND    GKEETINGS.  215 

have  found  you,  nothing  matters ;  but,  nothing 
at  all.  As  my  great,  my  gigantic  friend,  my 
colossal  preserver,  el  Capitan  Gimmo,  says, 
'  Ourrah  for  oz ! '  " 

"  Hurrah !  "  shouted  the  rough  riders. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ANOTHER   CAMP. 

They  made  but  a  brief  halt  at  tbe  ruined 
farm.  The  house  was  completely  gutted; 
the  widow  of  Don  Annunzio  had  the  clothes 
she  stood  in,  and  nothing  beside.  She  stood 
quietly  by  while  her  husband's  body  was  laid 
in  the  grave  beside  that  of  young  Cerito ;  a 
shallow  grave,  hastily  dug  in  what  had  lately 
been  the  garden.  She  listened  with  the  same 
quiet  face  while  good  old  Don  Miguel,  with 
faltering  voice,  recited  a  Latin  prayer.  She 
was  a  Methodist,  he  a  fervent  Catholic;  but 
it  mattered  little  at  that  moment. 

By  this  time  it  was  daylight.  A  small 
patch  of  bananas  was  found,  that  had  es- 
caped the  destroying  torch,  and  on  these  the 
party  made  a  hasty  meal;   then  they  rode 


ANOTHER    CAMP.  217 

away,  all  save  the  negroes,  who  preferred  to 
stay  in  the  neighbourhood  where  their  lives 
had  been  spent. 

They  rode  slowly,  in  deference  to  Don 
Miguel's  age  and  that  of  his  pony.  Rita, 
riding  beside  the  good  old  man,  listened  to 
the  recital  of  his  terrors  and  anxieties  from 
the  time  her  flight  was  discovered  to  the 
present  moment.  These  caused  her  real 
grief,  and  she  begged  again  and  again  for 
the  forgiveness  which  he  assured  her  was 
wholly  unnecessary.  But  when  he  described 
the  hysterical  rage  of  her  stepmother,  her 
eyes  brightened,  and  the  colour  came  back  to 
her  pale  cheek.  She  had  no  doubt  that  Con- 
cepcion  Montf ort  was  sorry  to  lose  her ;  the 
larger  part  of  her  father's  fortune  had  been 
settled  upon  her,  Rita,  before  his  second 
marriage. 

"  The  senora  also  has  made  diligent  search 
for  you,  my  child !  "  said  Don  Miguel.  "  She 
has  offered  ample  rewards  —  " 


218  EITA. 

"  I  know  it !  "  said  Rita.  "  Only  yester- 
day —  can  it  be  that  it  was  only  yesterday  ? 
—  Don  Diego  Moreno  was  here  —  there,  I 
should  say,  at  that  peaceful  home  that  is  now 
a  heap  of  ashes.     These  Spaniards !  " 

Had  she  seen  Don  Diego  ?  the  old  man 
asked ;  and  he  seemed  relieved  when  she 
answered  in  the  negative. 

"  It  is  well ;  it  is  well !  "  he  said.  "  He  is 
a  relative  of  the  senora's,  I  am  aware ;  but  it 
would  have  been  unsuitable,  most  unsuitable." 

"  What  would  have  been  unsuitable,  Donito 
Miguelito?" 

Don  Miguel  looked  confused.  ^^  A  —  noth- 
ing, my  child.  The  Senora  Montfort  had  an 
idea — Don  Diego  made  certain  advances  — 
in  short,  he  would  have  asked  for  your  hand, 
my  senorita  —  well,  my  Margarita,  if  you 
will  have  it  so.  But  I  took  it  upon  myself 
to  refuse  these  overtures  without  consulting 

you." 

Rita  heard  a  low  exclamation,  and  turning, 


ANOTHER    CAMP.  219 

saw  Delmonte's  face  like  dark  fire  beside 
her. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!  "  he  said.  ^^I  could 
not  help  hearing.  Don  Miguel,  if  Diego  Mo- 
reno makes  any  more  such  proposals,  kindly 
let  me  know,  and  I'll  shoot  him  at  sight." 

"1  —  thank  you!  thank  you,  my  son!" 
said  Don  Miguel,  somewhat  fluttered.  "  I 
hope  no  violence  will  be  necessary.  I  used 
strong  language,  very  strong  language,  to 
Don  Diego  Moreno.  I  —  I  told  him  that 
I  considered  him  a  person  entirely  objection- 
able, unfit  to  sweep  the  road  before  the  Seno- 
rita  Montfort's  feet.  He  went  away  very 
angry.  I  thought  we  should  hear  no  more  of 
him;  but  it  seems  that  he  still  retains  his 
presumptuous  idea.  Without  doubt,  it  will 
be  best,  my  dear  child,  for  you  to  seek  the 
northern  home  of  your  family  without  delay." 

Why,  at  this  obviously  sensible  remark, 
should  Eita  feel  a  sinking  at  the  heart,  and  a 
sudden   anger  against  her  dear  old  friend? 


220  RITA. 

And  again,  why,  on  stealing  a  glance  at  Del- 
monte,  and  seeing  the  trouble  reflected  in  his 
face,  should  her  heart  as  suddenly  spring  up 
again,  and  dance  within  her  ?  What  had 
happened  ? 

They  had  ridden  some  miles,  when  Jim 
Montf ort,  on  his  big  gray  horse,  ranged  along- 
side of  Delmonte. 

"  It  appears  to  me,"  he  said,  "  that  some- 
thing is  going  on  in  these  woods  here.  I've 
seen  two  or  three  bits  of  brown  that  weren't 
bark,  and  if  I  didn't  catch  the  shine  of  a  gun- 
barrel  just  now,  you  may  call  me  a  Dutch- 
man. I  think  I'll  fire,  and  see  what 
happens." 

^^No,  don't  do  that!"  said  Delmonte, 
quietly.  "It's  only  my  fellows.  They've 
been  keeping  alongside  for  the  last  half-mile, 
waiting  for  a  signal.  They  might  as  well 
come  out  now." 

He  gave  a  low  call  in  two  notes;  the  call 
Rita  had  heard  —  was  it  only  the  night  be- 


ANOTHER   CAMP.  221 

fore  ?  it  seemed  as  if  a  week  had  passed  since 
then. 

The  call  was  answered  from  the  wood ;  and 
as  if  by  magic,  from  every  tree,  from  every 
clump  of  bushes,  came  stealing  lean  brown 
figures,  leading  equally  lean  horses,  all 
armed  and  on  the  alert.  They  saluted,  and? 
at  a  word  from  the  burly  Juan,  fell  into  order 
with  the  precision  of  a  troop  on  drill. 

"  What's  all  this,  Juan  ?  "  asked  Delmonte. 
"  No  order  was  given." 

Juan  replied  with  submission  that  a  negro 
boy  had  brought  news  an  hour  ago  that  Don 
Annunzio's  house  had  been  burned,  he  and 
his  whole  household  murdered,  and  their 
captain  taken  prisoner ;  and  that  the  latter 
was  being  brought  in  irons  along  the  road  to 
Santiago.  They,  Juan  and  the  rest,  had 
planned  a  rescue,  and  disposed  themselves  to 
that  end  in  the  most  advantageous  manner. 
That  they  were  about  to  fire,  when  they  rec- 
ognised their  captain's  escort  as  Americans; 


222  RITA. 

and  that  they  then  resolved  to  accompany 
the  party  as  quietly  as  might  be  till  they 
came  near  the  camp,  and  then  make  their 
presence  known  to  all,  as  they  had  at 
once  made  it  known  to  Delmonte  himself 
by  a  low  call  which  only  he  had  noticed. 

"  Not  wishing  to  intrude/'  Juan  concluded, 
with  a  superb  salute. 

Delmonte  turned  to  his  companions.  "  Miss 
Montfort/'  he  said,  "  Captain  Montfort  — 
you'll  all  come  up  to  my  place,  of  course, 
and  rest,  for  to-day,  at  least.  It  isn't  much 
of  a  place  to  ask  you  to,  but  —  it's  quiet,  at 
least,  and  —  you  can  rest ;  and  you  must  be 
half-starved.     I  know  I  am." 

His  face  was  eager  as  a  boy's.  Rita's  was 
not  less  so,  as  she  gazed  at  the  big  cousin, 
who  stroked  his  beard  as  usual,  and  reflected. 

"I  did  mean  to  push  straight  on  to  San- 
tiago," he  said,  "but  —  it's  a  good  bit  of 
a  way,  to  be  sure;  what  do  you  say,  little 
cousin?  tired?  hey?" 


ANOTHER    CAMP.  223 

Rita  blushed.  "A  —  a  little  tired,  Cousin 
Jim ;  and  very  hungry  !  " 

This  settled  it.  Captain  Montfort  bid  Del- 
monte  "  fire  away."  The  latter  said  a  few 
rapid  words  to  Juan,  and  the  scout  shot  off 
like  an  arrow  across  the  fields,  riding  as  if 
for  his  life. 

An  hour  later,  the  whole  party  was  seated 
around  a  fire,  in  as  comfortable  a  nook  of  the 
hills  as  guerilla  leader  could  desire,  sipping 
coffee,  and  eating  broiled  chicken  and  fried 
bananas,  fresh  from  the  par  ilia.  The  fire 
was  built  against  a  great  rock  that  rose 
abruptly  from  the  dell,  forming  one  side  of 
it,  and  towering  so  high  that  the  smoke  dis- 
appeared before  it  reached  the  top.  Thick 
woods  framed  the  other  sides  of  the  natural 
fastness,  and  here  the  Cuban  riders  could  lie 
hidden  for  days  and  weeks,  unsuspected,  un- 
seen, save  by  the  wandering  birds  that  now 
and  then  circled  above  their  heads.  No  tents 
or  huts  here;   the  horses  were  tethered  to 


224  KITA. 

trees  ;  the  commander's  hammock  was 
swung  in  a  shady  thicket  near  the  great 
rock;  as  for  his  men,  a  ragged  blanket 
and  the  "  soft  side  of  a  stone  "  were  all  they 
asked. 

Eita  had  dressed  Captain  Delmonte's 
wound,  and  bandaged  the  arm  in  approved 
style,  Cousin  Jim  looking  on  with  grunts  of 
approval.  He  and  Delmonte  himself  both 
assured  her  that,  if  they  were  handling  it, 
they  should  simply  squirt  carbolic  acid  into 
it,  and  tie  it  up  with  anything  that  came 
handy ;  but  Rita  shook  her  head  gravely,  and 
three  of  her  delicate  handkerchiefs,  brought 
from  the  long-suffering  bag  which  Manuela 
had  somehow  managed  to  save  from  the 
ruins,  torn  into  strips,  made  a  very  sufficient 
bandage.  The  wound  was,  in  truth,  slight. 
Delmonte  looked  almost  as  if  he  wished  it 
more  severe,  for  the  whole  matter  of  bathing 
and  dressing  could  not  be  stretched  beyond 
ten  minutes;    but  Rita's  pride  in  her  neat 


ANOTHER   CAMP.  225 

bandage  was  pretty  to  see,  and  lie  watched 
her  with  delighted  eyes  through  every 
stage. 

"  Snug  quarters ! "  said  Jim  Montfort,  ap- 
provingly, as,  the  breakfast  over,  he  stretched 
his  huge  length  along  the  grass  and  looked 
about  him;  and  all  the  party  echoed  his 
opinion.  The  two  captains  fell  into  talk  of 
the  war  and  its  ways,  while  the  women, 
wearied  out,  rested  after  their  long  night 
of  distress  and  fatigue.  Marm  Prudence 
chose  the  dry  grass,  with  a  cloak  for  a 
pillow,  but  Rita  curled  herself  thankfully  in 
Captain  Jack's  hammock,  after  trying  in  vain 
to  persuade  him  that  he  was  an  invalid,  and 
ought  to  take  it  himself.  After  some  rum- 
maging in  a  hole  in  the  rock  which  served 
him  for  cupboard  and  wardrobe,  Delmonte 
brought  her  a  small  pillow  in  a  somewhat 
weather-beaten  cover.  "  I  wish  I  had  a  better 
one,"  he  said.  "This  has  been  out  in  the 
rain  a  good  deal,  and  I'm  afraid  it   smells 


226  RITA. 

of  smoke,  but  it's  a  great  pillow  for  sleeping 


on." 


"  Oh,  thank  you  !  "  said  Rita.  "  It  is  very 
comfortable  indeed.  How  good  you  are  to 
me,  Captain  Delmonte.  And  whatever  you 
may  say,  it  is  a  great  shame  for  me  to  take 
your  own  hammock.  If  there  were  only 
another  —  " 

"Oh,  please  don't!"  said  Jack.  "It's 
really  —  you  must  not  talk  so.  Miss  Mont- 
fort.  As  if  there  was  anything  I  wouldn't 
do  —  why,  this  hammock  will  never  be  the 
same  again.  I — I  mean  —  oh,  you  know 
what  I  mean,  and  I  never  could  make  pretty 
speeches.  But  —  it  is  a  pleasure,  and  —  an 
honour,  to  have  you  here ;  and  you  can't 
think  how  much  it  means  to  me.  Good 
night!     I  mean  —  sleep  well." 

He  added  a  few  words  of  a  German  song 
relative  to  the  desirability  of  a  certain  lovely 
angel's  slumbering  sweetly.  Rita  did  not 
understand   German,  but  the   tone   of    Del- 


ANOTHER   CAMP.  227 

monte's  voice  was  in  no  particular  language, 
and,  tired  as  she  was,  it  was  some  time  before 
she  went  to  sleep. 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  they  took  the 
road  again.  Before  starting  they  held  a  coun- 
cil, seated  together  beneath  the  great  tree, 
under  whose  shade  Rita  had  slept  peacefully 
for  several  hours.  Jim  Montfort  was  the  first 
speaker. 

"  I  take  it,"  he  said,  "  we'd  better,  each 
one  of  us,  say  what  we  mean  to  do.  Then 
the  sky  will  be  clear,  and  we  can  fit  in  or 
shake  apart,  as  seems  best  in  each  case.  We 
all  ride  together  to  Pine  del  Rio,  as  Captain 
Delmonte  is  so  friendly  as  to  ride  with  us. 
After  that  —  I'll  begin  with  you,  ma'am." 
He  addressed  the  widow  respectfully.  "  How 
can  I  best  serve  you  ?  I  am  going  to  see 
my  cousin  safe  off,  and  you  must  call  upon 
me  for  any   service    I   can  possibly  render 

you." 

"  She   will   stay  with    me ! "    cried   Rita. 


228  RITA. 

"Dear  Marm  Prudence,  you  will  stay  with 
me,  will  you  not?" 

Marm  Prudence  shook  her  head,  though 
with  a  look  of  infinite  kindliness.  "  Thank 
you,  dear,  "  she  said  5  "  it's  like  you  to  say  it, 
but  I'm  going  home  to  Greenvale,  Vermont. 
I've  a  sister  living  there  yet.  I'll  go  back  to 
my  own  folks  at  last,  and  lay  my  bones  along- 
side 0'  mother's.  I'll  never  forgit  you,  though, 
Miss  Margaritty,"  she  added,  "  nor  you,  Cap'n 
Jack,     There  !  I  can't  say  much  yet." 

She  turned  away,  and  all  were  silent  for 
a  moment,  as  she  wiped  the  tears  from  her 
rugged  face. 

"You  go  straight  home,  I  suppose,  sir?" 
said  Jim,  addressing  Don  Miguel. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  cried  the  little  gentleman.  "  I 
go  to  Pine  del  Rio  with  my  dear  ward  here. 
To  see  her  safe  on  board  a  good  vessel,  bound 
for  the  North ;  to  say  farewell  to  the  joy  of 
my  old  days,  and  put  out  the  light  of  my 
eyes  —  that  is  my  one  sad  desire,  Senor  Mont- 


ANOTHER   CAMP.  229 

fort.  After  that  —  I  am  old,  I  have  but  a 
short  time  left,  and  my  prayers  will  require 
that/' 

"  Well,  then,  it  seems  as  if  the  first  thing 
on  all  hands  was  to  find  a  steamer  sailing  for 
home,"  said  Jim.  "If  Mrs.  Annunzio  will 
take  charge  of  you.  Cousin  Rita,  I  think  that 
will  be  the  best  thing.  Uncle  John  will  send 
some  one  to  meet  you  in  New  York  and  take 
you  to  Fernley.     How  does  that  suit  you  ?  " 

Rita  was  silent.  She  had  grown  very  pale. 
Delmonte  looked  at  her  eagerly,  but  did  not 
speak. 

"  What  do  you  say,  little  cousin  ?  "  repeated 
Montfort.  "You  have  a  mind  of  your  own, 
and  a  pretty  decided  one,  if  I'm  not  mistaken. 
Let's  hear  it !  " 

Rita  spoke  slowly  and  with  difficulty,  her 
ready  flow  of  speech  lacking  for  once. 

"  Cousin  Jim  —  dear  Don  Miguel  —  you  are 
both  so  kind,  so  good.  You  too,  Marm  Pru- 
dence.    I  love  the  North.     I  love  my  dear 


230  KITA. 

uncle  and  cousin  —  ah,  how  dearly !  —  but  — 
I  do  not  want  to  go  to  Fernley." 

"  Not  want  to  go !  "  repeated  the  others. 

"  No !  indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot  go.  I  have 
been  thinking,  Cousin  Jim,  a  great  deal,  while 
all  these  things  have  been  happening ;  these 
wonderful,  terrible  things.  I  —  I  ought  to 
have  learned  a  great  deal;  I  hope  I  have 
learned  a  little.  I  have  talked  enough  about 
helping  my  country ;  too  much  I  have  talked ; 
now  I  want  to  do  something.  I  am  going  to 
work  in  one  of  the  hospitals.  Nurses  are 
needed,  I  know,  every  day  more  of  them. 
I  do  not  know  enough  —  yet  —  to  be  a  nurse, 
but  I  can  be  a  helper.  I  am  very  humble ;  I 
will  do  the  meanest  work,  but  —  but  that  is 
what  I  mean  to  do." 

She  ceased,  and  all  the  others,  looking  in 
her  face,  saw  it  bright  and  lovely  with  earnest 
resolve.  But  Don  Miguel  cried  out  in  expos- 
tulation. It  was  impossible,  he  said.  It  could 
not  be.    She  was  too  young,  too  delicate,  too 


ANOTHER   CAMP.  231 

—  the  proposition  was  monstrous.  He  ap- 
pealed to  Captain  Montfort  to  support  him, 
to  exercise  his  authority,  to  persuade  this 
dear  child  that  the  noble  idea  which  filled 
her  young  and  ardent  heart  was  wholly 
impracticable. 

Jim  Montfort  was  silent  for  a  time,  looking 
at  Rita  from  under  his  heavy  eyebrows.  Pres- 
ently —     "  You  mean  it  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  mean  it  with  all  my  heart !  "  said  Rita. 

"Well,"  said  Jim,  "my  opinion  is  —  con- 
sidering my  sister  Peggy  and  her  views,  to 
say  nothing  of  Jean  and  Flora — my  opinion 
is,  Rita  —  hurrah  for  you !  " 

A  month  ago,  Rita  would  have  gone  into 
violent  heroics  at  such  a  moment  as  this.  As 
it  was,  she  smiled,  though  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  said,  quietly,  "  Thank  you,  cousin ! 
It  is  what  I  expected  from  Peggy's  brother." 

"  May  I  speak  ?  "  said  another  voice.  They 
turned,  and  saw  Jack  Delmonte,  his  blue  eyes 
alight  with  eager  gladness. 


232  RITA. 

"  If  —  if  Miss  Montf  ort  has  this  noble  desire 
to  help  in  the  good  cause/'  he  said,  "  it  is  easy 
for  her  to  do  it.  My  mother  has  turned  her 
resideneia,  just  outside  the  city,  into  a  hos- 
pital. I  am  going  there  to-day.  She  needs 
more  help,  I  know.  You  —  you  would  like 
my  mother,  Miss  Montf  ort;  everybody  likes 
my  mother.  She  would  do  all  she  could  to 
make  it  easy  for  you,  and  she  would  be  so 
glad  —  oh,  I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  she 
would  be.  And  I  think  you  are  quite  cer- 
tain to  like  her." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Eita.  "  Have  I  not  heard  of 
the  Saint  of  Las  Kosas  ?  There  is  no  need  to 
tell  me  how  good  and  how  noble  the  Senora 
Delmonte  is.  But  —  but  will  she  like  me. 
Captain —  Captain  Jack  ?  " 

^^Will  she?"  said  Jack.  ^^Will  the  sun 
shine?" 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A   FOREGONE    CONCLUSION. 

Las  Rosas,  June  — ,  1898. 
Dear  Uncle  John  :  —  Since  I  last  wrote 
you,  telling  of  our  finding  Rita,  and  of  her 
safe  delivery  to  Senora  Delmonte,  things  have 
been  happening.  In  the  first  place,  I  got  a 
shot  in  my  leg,  in  a  skirmish,  and,  as  the 
bone  was  broken,  and  it  didn't  seem  to  come 
round  as  it  ought,  I  came  here  to  be  coddled, 
and  am  having  a  great  time  of  it.  Senora 
Delmonte  is  a  fine  woman,  sir.  You  don't 
see  many  such  women  in  a  lifetime.  She  has 
a  little  hospital  here,  as  complete  as  if  she  had 
New  York  City  in  her  back  dooryard ;  all  her 
own  place,  you  understand.  Kind  of  Florence 
Nightingale  woman.   What's  more,  little  Rita 

S38 


234  EITA. 

promises  to  become  her  right  hand ;  if  she's 
given  a  chance^  that  is  —  I'll  come  to  that  by 
and  by,  though.  The  way  that  little  girl 
takes  hold,  sir,  is  a  caution.  She's  quick, 
and  she's  quiet,  and  she's  cheerful ;  and  she 
has  brains  in  her  head,  which  is  a  mighty 
good  thing  in  a  woman  when  you  do  find  it. 
She  and  Seiiora  Delmonte  are  like  mother 
and  daughter  already ;  and  this  brings  me  to 
something  else  I  want  to  say.  It's  pretty 
clear  that  Jack  Delmonte  has  lost  his  heart 
to  this  little  girl  of  ours.  It  began,  I  suspect, 
the  night  he  carried  her  off  from  the  Span- 
iards; you  have  heard  all  about  that;  and 
it's  been  going  on  here,  while  a  little  flesh 
wound  he  had  was  healing.  Yes,  sir,  he's  in 
it  deep,  and  no  mistake ;  and,  for  that  matter, 
I  guess  she  is,  too,  though  those  things  aren't 
in  my  line.  Anyhow,  what  I  want  to  say 
is  this :  Jack  Delmonte  is  as  fine  a  fellow 
as  there  is  this  side  of  the  Rockies ;  and  I 
don't  know  that  I'll  stop  there,  barring  my 


A  FOKEGOISrE    CONCLUSION.  235 

brother  Hugh.  This  war  isn't  going  to  last 
much  longer.  By  some  kind  of  miracle,  this 
place  —  sugar  plantation,  and  well  paying  in 
good  times  —  hasn't  been  meddled  with ;  and 
Jack  ought  to  be  able  to  support  a  wife,  if  he 
puts  good  work  into  the  business,  as  he  will. 
He's  a  first-rate  all-round  fellow,  and  has 
brains  in  his  head  —  said  that  before,  didn't 
I  ?  well,  it's  a  good  thing  in  a  man,  too.  I'm 
not  much  of  a  hand  at  writing,  as  I  guess 
you'll  see.  All  I  mean  to  say  is,  if  he  and 
little  Rita  want  to  hitch  up  a  double  team, 
my  opinion  is  it  would  be  a  mighty  good 
thing,  and  I  hope  you'll  give  them  your 
blessing  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  when 
the  time  comes. 

Much  obliged  for  your  letter,  but  sorry  your 
knee  still  bothers  you.  Father  has  been  laid 
up,  too,  so  he  writes ;  rheumatism.  I'm  getting 
on  first-rate,  and  shall  be  out  of  this  soon.  I 
think  a  month  or  so  more  will  see  the  whole 
blooming  business  over,  and  peace  declared. 


236  KITA. 

Time,  too !    this  is  no  kind  of  a  country  to 
stay  in. 

Your  affectionate  nephew, 

James  Montfokt. 

P.  S.  Tell  Cousin  Margaret  that  J.  D.  is 
all  right. 

Las  Rosas,  June  — ,1898. 

My  Dear  Mr.  Montfort  :  —  I  wonder  if 
you  remember  Mary  Russell,  with  whom  you 
used  to  dance  now  and  then  when  you  came 
to  Claxton  in  the  old  days,  we  will  not  say 
how  many  years  ago.  I  certainly  have  not 
forgotten  the  pleasant  partner  who  waltzed  so 
well,  and  I  am  glad  to  have  the  opportunity 
of  claiming  acquaintance  with  you.  I  meant 
to  write  as  soon  as  your  niece  arrived  at  my 
house,  but  the  battle  in  this  neighbourhood  the 
day  after  brought  us  such  an  influx  of  wounded 
that  my  hands  were  very  full,  and  the  hasty 
dictated  line  was  all  I  could  manage.  We  are 
now  in  a  little  eddy  of  the  storm  (which,  we 
hope,  is  nearly  over),  and  have  only  a  dozen 


<'THE    PATIENTS     IDOLISE    HER. 


A   FOREGONE    CONCLUSION.  237 

men  in  the  house,  and  most  of  these  convales- 
cent ;  so  I  must  not  delay  longer  in  assuring 
you  of  the  very  great  pleasure  and  help  it  has 
been  to  me  to  have  Margarita  with  me.  In- 
deed, I  hardly  know  what  I  should  have  done 
without  her  the  first  week,  as  two  of  my 
nurses  were  ill  just  at  the  time  when  we 
were  fullest.  She  shows  a  remarkable  apti- 
tude for  nursing,  which  is  rather  singular, 
as  she  tells  me  that  until  lately  she  has  been 
extremely  timid  about  such  matters,  fainting 
at  the  sight  of  blood,  etc.  You  never  would 
think  it  now,  to  see  her  going  about  her  work 
in  the  wards.  The  patients  idolise  her,  and 
what  is  more  (and  less  common),  so  do  the 
nurses,  who  declare  that  she  will  miss  her 
vocation  if  she  does  not  go  into  a  training- 
school  as  soon  as  she  leaves  Las  Rosas ;  but 
I  fancy  you  would  not  choose  so  arduous  a 
life  for  her. 

This  brings  me,  my  dear  Mr.  Montfort,  to 
what  is  really  the  chief  object  in  my  writing 


238  EITA. 

to  you  to-day.  Without  beating  about  the 
bush,  I  am  going  to  say,  at  once  and  frankly, 
that  my  dear  son,  Jack,  has  become  deeply 
attached  to  this  charming  niece  of  yours. 
Who  could  be  surprised  at  it?  she  must 
always  have  been  charming ;  but  the  sweet- 
ness and  thoughtfulness  that  I  have  seen 
growing  day  by  day  while  she  hag  been 
under  my  charge  are,  I  somehow  fancy,  a 
new  phase  of  her  development.  Indeed,  Rita 
herself  has  told  me,  in  her  vivid  way,  of 
some  of  the  wild  pranks  of  her  "unguided 
youth,"  as  she  calls  it,  —  the  child  will  be 
nineteen,  I  believe,  on  her  next  birthday !  — 
and  we  have  laughed  and  shaken  our  heads 
together  over  them.  She  is  far  more  severe 
upon  herself  than  I  can  be,  for  I  see  the  quick, 
impulsive  nature,  and  see,  too,  how  it  is  being 
subdued  and  brought  more  and  more  under 
control  by  a  strong  will  and  a  good  heart. 
A  very  noble  woman  our  Rita  will  make,  if 
she  has  the  right  surroundings. 


A   FOREGONE    CONCLUSION.  239 

Can  we  give  her  these  ?  that  is  the  ques- 
tion ;  a  question  for  you  to  answer,  dear  Mr. 
Montfort.  Jack  saw  readily,  when  I  pointed 
it  out  to  him,  that  it  would  not  be  suitable 
for  him  to  speak  of  love  to  an  orphan  girl  — 
an  heiress,  too,  I  believe  —  without  her  guard- 
ian's express  consent.  He  chafes  at  the  delay, 
for  he  is  very  ardent,  being  half  Cuban ;  but 
you  may  have  entire  confidence  that  he  will 
say  nothing  to  Kita  until  I  hear  from  you. 

You  can  easily  find  out  about  Jack ;  there 
is  nothing  in  his  life  that  he  need  conceal. 
Colonel  G.  and  Mrs.  B ,  in  New  York,  Pro- 
fessor Searcher  and  Doctor  Lynx,  of  Blank 
College,  will  tell  you  of  his  school  and  college 
days ;  and  Captain  Montfort  will,  I  think, 
say  a  good  word  for  his  record  as  a  soldier 
and  a  patriot.  Of  course,  in  my  eyes,  he  is  a 
little  bit  of  a  hero ;  but  maternal  prejudice 
laid  aside  (if  such  a  thing  may  be ! ) ,  I  can 
truly  say  that  he  is  a  clean,  honest,  high- 
minded  man,  with  a  sound  constitution  and 


240  RITA. 

an  excellent  disposition.  Add  to  this  a  mod- 
erate income  (not,  I  am  happy  to  say,  enough 
to  allow  him  to  dispense  with  work,  were  he 
inclined  to  do  so,  which  he  is  not),  and  a 
very  earnest  and  devoted  attachment,  and 
you  have  the  whole  case  before  you.  May 
I  hope  to  have  your  answer  as  soon  as  you 
shall  have  satisfied  yourself  on  the  various 
points  on  which  you  will  naturally  seek  in- 
formation ?  I  assure  you  that,  with  the  best 
intentions  in  the  world.  Jack  does  find  it 
hard  to  restrain  himself.  Let  me  add  that, 
if  your  answer  is  favourable,  it  will  make 
me  as  well  as  my  son  very  happy.  Rita  is 
all  that  I  could  wish  for  in  a  daughter ;  and 
I  shall  try  my  best  to  fill  a  mother's  place 
toward  her. 

In  any  case,  believe  me,  dear  Mr.  Montfort, 
Cordially  yours, 

Mary  Russell  Delmonte. 

P.  S.  You  may  ask,  does  Rita  return  Jack's 
affection?  I  think  she  does! 


A   FOKEGONE    CONCLUSION.  241 

Santiago,  June  — ,  1898. 
Honoured  Senor  :  —  Your  valued  letter, 
containing  inquiries  on  the  subject  of  Senor 
Captain  John  Delmonte  is  at  hand  and  con- 
tents notified.  I  hasten  to  reply  with  all  the 
ardour  of  which  I  am  capacious.  This  young 
man  is  a  nobleman  ;  few  princes  have  equalled 
him  in  virtuous  worth.  Brave,  honourable, 
pious  (though  Protestant;  but  this  belief  is 
probably  your  own,  and  is  held  by  many  of 
those  most  valuable  to  me,  your  honoured 
brother  among  them),  a  faithful  and  obedi- 
ent son,  a  leader  beloved  to  rapture  by  his 
soldiers.  If  more  could  be  to  say,  I  would 
hasten  to  cry  it  aloud.  You  tell  me,  with 
noble  frankness,  he  is  a  pretender  for  the 
hand  of  my  beloved  Margarita;  already  it 
has  been  my  happiness  to  be  aware  of  it. 
Seiior  Montfort,  to  see  these  two  admirable 
young  persons  united  in  the  holy  bondages 
of  weddinglock  is  the  last  and  chief  wish 
of  my  life.     I  earnestly  beg  your  sanction  of 


242  RITA. 

their  unition.  In  Jack  I  find  a  son  for  my 
solitary  age ;  in  Margarita  a  daughter,  the 
most  tender  as  she  is  the  most  beautiful  that 
the  world  contains.  To  close  my  aged  eyes 
on  seeing  them  unified,  is,  I  repeat  it,  the  one 
wish  of, 

Honoured  Senor, 
Your  most  obedient  and  humble  servitor, 
Miguel  Pietoso. 

Las  Eosas,  June  — ,1898. 
My  Dear  Mr.  Montfort: — I  have  just 
read  your  letter  to  my  mother,  and  I  want  to 
thank  you  before  I  do  anything  else.     There 
isn't  much  to  say,  except  that  I  will  do  my 
best  to  be  in  some  degree  worthy  of  this  treas- 
ure, if  I  win  it.   I  will  try  to  make  her  happy, 
sir,  I  will  indeed.      No  one  could  be  good 
enough  for  her,  so  I  will  not  pretend  to  that. 
She  is  awake  now,  so  I  must  go. 
Gratefully  yours, 

JoHis^  Delmonte. 


A   FOKEGONE    CONCLUSION.  243 

Las  Rosas,  Evening. 
Dearest,  dearest  Margaret  :  —  Why  are 
you  not  here  ?  I  want  you  —  oh,  I  want  you 
so  much !  I  am  so  happy,  so  wonderfully, 
almost  terribly  happy,  how  can  I  put  it  on 
paper  ?  The  paper  will  light  itself,  will  burn 
up  for  joy,  I  think ;  but  I  will  try.  Listen ! 
an  hour  ago  —  it  is  an  evening  of  heaven,  the 
moon  was  shining  for  me,  for  me  and  —  oh, 
but  wait !  I  was  in  the  garden,  resting  after 
the  day's  work ;  I  had  been  asleep,  and  now 
would  take  the  remainder  of  my  free  time 
in  waking  rest.  The  air  was  balm,  the  roses 
all  in  blossom.  Such  roses  were  never  seen, 
Marguerite;  the  place  is  named  for  them, 
Las  Rosas.  They  are  in  bowers,  in  garlands, 
in  heaps  and  mounds  —  I  smell  them  now. 
The  rose  is  my  flower,  remember  that,  my 
life  long.  I  used  to  tell  you  it  was  the 
jessamine;  the  jessamine  is  a  simpleton,  I 
tell  you.  I  was  picking  white  roses,  the 
kind  that  blushes  a  little  warm  at  its  heart 


244  KITA. 

—  when  I  heard  some  one  coming.  I  knew 
who  it  was ;  can  I  tell  how  ?  It  was  Captain 
Jack.  I  trembled.  He  came  to  me^  he  spoke, 
he  took  my  hand.  Oh^  my  dear,  my  dear, 
I  cannot  tell  you  what  he  said ;  but  he  loves 
me;  he  is  my  Jack,  I  am  his  Rita.  Mar- 
guerite, will  you  tell  me  how  it  can  be  true  ? 
Your  wild,  silly,  foolish  Rita,  playing  at 
emotions  all  her  childish  life :  she  wakes  up, 
she  begins  to  try  to  be  a  little  like  you,  my 
best  one ;  and  all  of  a  sudden  she  finds  herself 
in  Paradise,  with  a  warrior  angel  —  Mar- 
guerite, I  did  not  think  of  it  till  this  moment ; 
my  Jack  is  the  express  image  of  St.  Michael. 
His  nose  tips  up  the  least  bit  in  the  world  — 
I  don't  mind  it;  it  gives  life,  dash,  to  his 
wonderful  face ;  otherwise  there  is  no  differ- 
ence. My  St.  Michael !  my  soldier,  my  Star 
of  Horsemen !  Marguerite,  no  girl  was 
ever  so  happy  since  the  world  was  made. 
Oh,  don't  think  me  fickle ;  let  me  tell  you  ! 
In  the  South  here,  are  we  different  ?     It  must 


A   FOREGONE    CONCLUSION.  245 

be  so.  I  was  fond  of  Santayana;  but  that 
was  in  another  life.  I  was  a  sentimental, 
passionate  child ;  he  was  handsome  as  a 
picture ;  it  was  a  dream  of  seventeen.  Now 
—  can  you  believe  that  I  am  a  little  grown 
up  ?  I  really  think  I  am.  Perhaps  I  think 
it  most  because  now,  for  the  first  time,  I 
really  want  to  be  like  you,  Marguerite.  I 
used  to  be  so  pleased  with  being  myself  — 
I  was  the  vainest  creature  that  ever  lived. 
Now,  I  want  to  be  like  you  instead ;  I  want 
to  be  a  good  woman,  a  good  wife.  Ah !  what 
a  wife  you  will  make  if  you  marry!  But 
how  can  you  marry,  my  poor  darling  ?  There 
is  only  one  man  in  the  world  good  enough 
for  you,  and  he  is  mine.  I  cannot  give  him 
up,  even  to  you,  my  saint.  I  have  two  saints 
now ;  I  ought  to  be  a  Catholic.  The  second 
one  is  his  mother,  the  Saint  of  Las  Kosas,  as  ^ 
she  is  called  all  through  this  part  of  the 
island.  Marguerite,  I  must  strive  to  grow 
like  her,  too,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible. 


246  RITA. 

I  have  work  enough  for  my  life^  but  what 
blessed  work !  to  try  to  make  myself  worthy 
of  Jack  Delmonte^  my  Jack,  my  own ! 

He  took  me  to  his  mother;  I  have  just 
come  from  her.  I  am  her  daughter  from 
that  moment,  she  says;  oh,  Marguerite,  I 
will  try  to  be  a  good  one.  Hear  me— ruo! 
I  am  not  going  to  make  vows  any  more,  or 
talk  like  girls  in  novels ;  I  am  just  going  to 
try.  I  loved  her  from  the  first  moment  I 
saw  her  grave,  beautiful  face.  She  took  me 
in  her  arms,  my  dear;  she  said  things  —  I 
have  come  up  here  to  weep  alone,  tears  of 
happiness.  Dearest,  you  alone  knew  thor- 
oughly the  old  Eita,  the  foolish  creature,  who 
dies,  in  a  way,  to-night.  Say  good-bye  to  her ; 
give  her  a  kiss.  Marguerite,  for  she  too  loved 
you ;  but  not  half  as  dearly  as  does  the  new, 
happy,  blessed 

Margarita  de  Sak  Real  Montfort. 

THE    END.- 


YB  37096 


